Codes & Conduct
by NayaWarbler
Summary: Kurt Hummel finds himself in the ICU after an ambush from a group of bullies — which wouldn't be a problem, except that it happens to be on the same night of a freak road accident that leaves the hospital understaffed, and he happens to be in critical condition. In response to Code Orange, med student Blaine Anderson meets Dr. Cooper Anderson in the emergency ward. Also on AO3
1. Sleep Tight

**CODES & CONDUCT**

**Full Summary: Kurt Hummel finds himself in the ICU after an ambush from a group of bullies — which wouldn't be a problem, except that it happens to be on the same night of a freak highway accident that leaves the hospital understaffed, and he happens to be in critical condition. Responding to a Code Orange, med student Blaine Anderson rushes meet his brother, Dr. Cooper Anderson, in the emergency ward. For Kurt, this could be the end or the beginning... and he's not even awake for it. Klaine**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE READING THIS STORY! IF YOU GET TRIGGERED EASILY, THIS STORY IS NOT FOR YOU. IT DEALS WITH MATURE THEMES.**

**WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of violence, rape/non-con (implied/referenced sexual assault), homophobic language, bullying, age gap, post-traumatic stress disorder, mild sexual content**

**I would like to explicitly state that there are no underaged sexual relations between Blaine and Kurt or any other characters in this story. While the age of consent in Ohio is 16 years of age, Kurt and Blaine do not engage in any such activities until Kurt is over 18 years old. At the beginning of this story, Kurt is 17 and Blaine is 24 (although he is in his third year of medical school, he skipped a grade in high school).**

**Note: This story is cross-posted on Archive of Our Own under the same title. My account name there is NayaWarbler. See author profile for more information.**

* * *

**Chapter One: Sleep Tight**

They always made him go first.

He hated it.

Not only because they called him "lady," but also because it meant that there was always someone behind him. For people like Kurt, for the prey, for the victims, the fools, the suckers and the chumps, having someone behind you is always the worst thing.

Really, it was Survival Instincts 101 — maybe that was a course that should have been taught at McKinley High, if they weren't going to make any effort to change things for the better. Teach the children how to survive instead of fixing the flawed system.

So maybe Kurt had some anger in there somewhere that wasn't so hard to find. Could you blame him? His entire existence had been founded on anger: ignorance, homophobia, stereotyping. All this before he was even old enough to know what — or _who _— he liked. All because of the way he looked, or the way he sounded, or, _yes, _which sex appealed to him.

He liked to think that he was a good person, despite what they said. However, to be fair, the vile things they spewed at him had less to do with his virtue and more to do with pointing out obvious truths (for example, the word he liked to not say). At least in this way, he could pretend that they were complimenting him — that they could find nothing wrong with his heart and instead had to settle for tearing down his being.

Think about this for a moment, and let it break your heart, if you want to truly understand Kurt Hummel.

As each second of his life ticked away where he was hidden fearfully away in one place or another, Kurt had lots of time to think about his circumstances. However, none of these revelations stopped him from crying himself to sleep at night, or from keeping a first-aid kit in his locker, or from frequenting the nurse's office with a plethora of excuses in his back pocket like a normal teen his age would frequent a club or a bar.

It's why he was trapped in the locker room, hiding in one of the shower stalls with his knees tucked into his body and his head down, not wishing or praying because he was far past that point. His bloody hand itched to turn on the warm spray, and his aching shoulder screamed in agreement, but he knew he couldn't risk it. Not for another — he checked the clock above the doorway — twelve minutes. Everyone was usually gone by six o'clock.

At least, he damn well hoped so.

He watched the hands move until his eyes grew blurry from staring at the same spot for too long. Time was slow, but it was plentiful. Either that, or it was the opposite — he wasn't sure which he preferred, to be honest.

When the clock finally chimed, Kurt gave in and turned on the shower. Then he waited a moment, then two, three. The only sounds that could be heard were the broken hum of the humidifier and the eerie buzz of fluorescent lights. It seemed that today was one of the lucky days…

Not that Kurt believed in luck.

* * *

"Where have you _been_?" Burt screeched the second he walked through the door. Rolling his eyes, he hung up his (thrifted) designer coat, making sure to keep his hand out of sight before tucking it casually in his pocket.

"I'm a teenager, dad. Teenagers stay out late," he retorted in his far-from-rebellious manner. It was the first thing he'd said since history class when Mr. Schue had picked on him — note the choice wording — for an answer he clearly didn't know.

"Not this teenager," Burt replied. "Who were you with? Rachel? Mercedes? Or was it… a boy?"

"In Lima?" Kurt snorted. "Fat chance of that. The only boys my age around here are brainless jocks who…" He trailed off, clearing his throat. Confessions tended to slip out a little too easily around his father.

Burt eyed him carefully, and Kurt straightened his back, averting his eyes and digging his hand further into his pocket; unfortunately for him, fashion and deep jean pockets don't mix well.

Earlier that day, Karofsky had knocked him into his locker — hence the bruised shoulder — and stepped on his hand when he tried to pick up his books. Damn boot crevasses, and damn that giant-footed neanderthal with a lot of body mass to rest on his tiny hand.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that!" Finn called from the living room, preceding a loud crash from his game console and an equally loud curse. Burt shook his head, signaling for his son to head inside. Kurt smiled, following the reprimands from Carole into the kitchen where he was ambushed — in the good way — by a combination of scents.

His father strolled into the kitchen as well, pecking Carole's lips. He eyed the pot happily, taking in a lungful through his nose. "What's cookin', good lookin'?"

She shook her head, giggling quietly before whacking his hand away from the handle. "Italian, and _no_, it's not ready yet."

He grumbled playfully, and Kurt rolled his eyes again, holding back a grin at his father's antics. No matter how his day went, he could always come home to this. Yet still, sometimes he couldn't… sometimes, when Karofsky left a mark on his face that he knew he couldn't cover up until the next day, he had to lie to his father and tell him that he was staying with Rachel or Mercedes when really he would cut class and stay overnight in his car in the school parking lot, sometimes laying on the floor so he wouldn't be seen until class was over.

"Hey, buddy, you in there?" He was brought out of his thoughts by Burt waving a hand in his face. He startled, nodding his head aggressively.

"What? Yeah, just spacey. Thinking about our Glee assignment this week."

Carole's ears perked; she loved to hear about Glee because it was one of the things that bonded her two sons. "Well, sweetie, how about you and Finn tell me all about it while we finish up dinner?"

"What about me?" Burt protested half-heartedly, sent off by just one glance from Carole.

"Honey, I love you, but your cooking skills leave much to be desired." He didn't even pretend to be offended for that one, just grinned and pecked her lips once more before grabbing a beer and heading for the living room.

"And me?" Finn said, coming to sit at the stool propped in front of the island.

"How about you just sit there and talk, hon?" He nodded enthusiastically in that way that only Finn could, grinning with all his teeth when Kurt slid him a hunk of spare cheese.

"You're the best, bro," he said — or at least, that's what Kurt construed — through a mouthful of cheddar.

Carole returned from the sink with a handful of washed vegetables. "Kurt, sweetie, could you dice the onions and peel the garlic?"

About to agree, Kurt remembered his injured hand, his heart sinking into his chest. Cooking dinner with his stepmother was one of his favourite parts of the day. He leaned against the countertop, sticking his other hand into his pockets as well, and said, "Um, I think I'm going to opt out today. Sorry, Carole."

She stopped, shocked, and her eyebrows furrowed. "Is something the matter? You love cooking, Kurt."

"Yeah, I'm just… tired, you know? Long day at school. Lots of homework to do."

Carole nodded, concern etched into her features, and didn't protest. "Sure, honey. Get some rest. I'll call you when dinner's done."

Kurt smiled weakly, waving goodbye to Finn before heading slowly up the stairs. On the way up, he heard his brother launch into a spiel about their Glee assignment… and he wanted nothing more than to go down there and join him.

Too bad the world wouldn't be satisfied until it drained every last bit of joy out of Kurt Hummel's soul.

* * *

Changed into his baggiest sweater that had far-too-long sleeves — in fact, he was almost certain it was his brother's and had found its way into his closet, as nothing _he_ owned would be this… _Finn_ — Kurt settled back onto his bed after a long and interrogative dinner, resting his freshly bandaged hand against the warmth of his laptop. His facebook was open from the night before, and he refreshed the page despite his absolute lack of interest. There was Rachel's post about the competition for sectionals — the Garglers or something — followed by some kind of internet feud between his friends that Kurt probably should have paid attention to but really couldn't be bothered.

The first time he saw his name, he shut down his computer and pushed it to the other side of his bed, eyes stinging from pain and anger. Kurt _hated_ that damn word they used to describe him. Hated it.

They'd found him.

They were everywhere.

Kurt was so, so_ tired._

He never went to sleep that night.

* * *

"I mean, it's clearly obvious," she declared, standing from her chair as though she were in a soap. "I deserve that solo at sectionals."

Mercedes rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "Rachel, _clearly obvious_ is almost as redundant as your melodramatics."

"You know what's more redundant?" Mr. Schue interjected. "You two fighting over this when I've clearly said I already have someone chosen for the solo!"

Kurt forced himself to stay upright in his chair, already feeling himself doze off — not _only_because he was bored of seeing the same thing happen again that literally happened every day, but also because he was just so _tired_. He could practically feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, and his eyes fluttered shut against his will. Not that he was upset about losing the darling visual of Rachel and Mercedes battling to the death like gladiators or anything.

Of course, it didn't matter that he was half-asleep, anyway; no one in the club would notice. With this comfort at the front of his mind, Kurt allowed himself to drift off…

He was, however, woken by an enraged shout from Rachel. "What?" she cried, marching up to Mr. Schue and poking an accusing finger at him. "This is heresy! How dare you chose-"

"Rachel, I think he's perfectly capable-"

"What about me-"

"I respect you, Mr. Schue, but-"

"Are you sure this is a good-"

"He's _half-asleep_, for God's sake!"

That one caught Kurt's attention.

"Rachel, I'm sure he's just tired from a long day," Mr. Schue defended. Kurt's eyes widened — could he be hearing right? Man, he'd chosen the wrong moment to fall asleep in Glee.

Finn nodded, chiming in. "Yeah, he was like this yesterday after school, too."

Mr. Schue's eyebrows furrowed. "Really? You do seem distant lately, Kurt. Are you feeling alright?"

Kurt just sat there, in his usual back row seat, staring at the well-meaning teacher with incredulous eyes. _Now_ he noticed something was wrong? He didn't want to be angry at the teacher — he could see in his eyes that he wanted the best for all his students. It's just… sometimes Kurt felt like that didn't extend to him.

But a solo? At sectionals? It seemed too good to be true, and so Kurt didn't trust it. That was the standard he lived by, so it seemed. That was the rule he used to protect himself the way he couldn't physically.

"Kurt?"

In response, he just shook his head. He didn't want a pity solo, or a hand-out, or anything really. "I don't want it. Give it to someone else. Like Brittany or Santana, or maybe Tina or Artie."

Rachel glared at him, but Finn just looked concerned. "I thought you wanted this, bro?"

"Kurt, what's this about?" Mr. Schue asked. They locked eyes, and Kurt saw the worry in his. He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled, shaking his head.

"I have a headache."

"It'll be gone by sectionals."

A pause, and a flash of emotion passed through his teacher's eyes. "Please, Kurt."

He hesitated but nodded nevertheless. "Okay."

Only once the meeting was over and everyone was leaving for their homes, when he caught Mr. Schue's grin as he locked the doors to their haven did Kurt finally allow himself to believe it, and a matching grin slowly spread across his face.

He was going to sing, and he was going to be damn good.

* * *

"Finn? Where are you?" Kurt stumbled in the dark, staying close to the school's walls that were lit by small, circular, moth-attracting lights that illuminated the dust in the chilly air. He gripped his cell phone close to his ear, listening for his brother's comforting voice.

It came, but the words were not comforting. "Dude, I'm so sorry but Rachel literally dragged me off with her. Can you drive yourself home?"

"You drove us this morning," he whispered, pressing his back against the wall. There could be no one behind him if there was a wall of bricks. "I don't have the Navigator."

"Shit. Um, my car's in the lot. Take it home."

"Please tell me that this is not the one time you happened to remember your keys and that they are not in your jacket pocket." He heard fumbling on the other end of the line, followed by a relieved sigh.

"They aren't. Which means they're in the locker room. You know my combo?"

Kurt sighed. "I do, but chances are you probably forgot to lock it."

"True," Finn replied. "Well, Rachel's on my ass again. I'm really sorry about this, bro. Drive safe. I'll see you at home for Friday night family dinner?"

"Of course you will. It's family dinner after all." He rubbed his temples. "Don't let Rachel drive you mad. Goodbye, Finn."

"See ya, Kurt. Love you, little brother."

His frown softened, and he smiled gently. "I love you too, Finn. And I'm older than y-" The line died, and Kurt rolled his eyes. _Goofball_.

He pushed his bag higher up his shoulder and held the strap, taking a deep breath before entering the building again. The halls were brightly lit by fluorescent lights (which did no good for his skin, mind you), but in the light, he could neither see nor hear a soul. He checked his watch; it was past six o'clock, and the only people in the building now would be the cleaning crew, which consisted of Larry, the one-eyed janitor; Gertrude, the one who smokes more than she cleans; and at times, oddly enough, Principal Figgins — don't ask, because Kurt couldn't tell you.

Just to be safe, he took off his favourite high-heeled boots that clacked when they hit the floor and tucked them away behind a fake plant (which somehow seemed to be dying, and that was a whole other realm of impossible).

As his socked feet hit the ground, they barely made a patter; Kurt was, really and truly, quiet as a mouse. He slipped into the locker room, making a bee-line for his brother's locker — as far as he knew, there was no one here he needed to look out for. However, as he opened the unlocked locker, he felt shadows dancing across his skin and froze.

"What are you doing here, squirt?"

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Just getting my brother's keys to drive home, Coach. Glee just let out."

Beiste nodded, still looking apprehensive. "Alright, kid. Although you guys sure are staying late these days."

"You know, prepping for sectionals."

A smile lit up her face, making her seem more pretty than scary. "Will was telling me at lunch about how he'd chosen a certain blue-eyed someone with impeccable skin for the solo. Congratulations, buddy."

"Thanks, Coach. I'm really excited," he replied, very much telling the truth. The light in his eyes as he talked about singing made that much abundantly clear to the football coach.

She pounded his shoulder lightly, missing his tiny flinch. "As you should be. I hear sectionals is a big deal."

"I'd try to equate them to some football performance or something, but we all know how that would turn out."

"Match, Kurt. It's a football match."

"Right. Of course." He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "I was on the football team once, which means I should probably know this. Although I did used to say 'audition' instead of 'try out,' so I guess I'm improving."

"You were on the team? What position?" Beiste asked, looking genuinely interested. Kurt loved how sincere she was.

"Kicker, and that's a story for another day."

"It's probably a long one, too," she joked, locking the door to her office. "Well, I'll hold you to that. For now, you should get home. Goodnight, Kurt."

"Night, Coach." As she turned to leave, a question popped into Kurt's mind, important. "Wait, Coach?"

She turned. "Yes? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's just… did you have a late practice today?" he asked, trying to keep his fear from manifesting on his face. If Beiste was here…

"No, we finished up an hour or two ago. Why?" She looked concerned, and Kurt waved her off, abated.

"No reason, just wondering how much Finn missed today."

She smiled, but the worry hadn't yet disappeared from her features. "I try to keep the workload low when you guys have Glee practice, considering how many of my guys are doing both."

"They really appreciate it, Coach. We all do." It was left unsaid, but the name Sue Sylvester weighed down the metaphorical balance.

"I know you do. Night, Kurt. Drive safe."

"You too, Coach. Night." Then she was gone, and the safety net that had settled over Kurt rose like the hair on a frightened cat.

The hum of the humidifier suddenly seemed like the backtrack to a horror film, and he knew he was practically alone in a cold school filled with the ghosts of his past. All he wanted was to get out of there before his so-called luck finally caught up to him, after all the good things that had happened to him today.

As the universe had shown him in the past, Kurt Hummel doesn't deserve to be happy.

Desperate to leave, he quickly grabbed the jacket from his brother's locker, making a mental note to remind him more to lock it, before turning and…

Coming face to face with Karofsky and his goons.

"Coach just left. She's probably still here," Kurt defended, shoving the jacket back into the locker to free his hands before shutting the door and backing up against it.

"She's in the parking lot. She can't hear nothing," Azimio sneered, leaning in close. "There's gonna be a lot to hear, too.

"Why are you even here? Coach said your practice was let out hours ago. Do you really have nothing better to do on a Friday night than wait for someone to come along who you can beat down?"

Karofsky's face contorted, screwing up so that all his features drew closer together. "There is nothing better," he retorted, breaking a fragmented metal pipe from the ceiling and smacking it against his hand, muscles bulging menacingly.

"Why are you doing this?" he cried hysterically. "I've done nothing to you. You can't punch the gay out of me any more than I can punch the ignoramus out of you."

"Calm down, fairy," Karofsky breathed, settling for one of his tamer nicknames. This sent a chill of dread down Kurt's spine; he'd be making up for that in other ways. "We haven't even started yet and you're already crying. Maybe we're just trying to toughen you up, make you less of a-" Kurt tried to block out the awful swears coming from his lips, but they forced their way into his mind, stinging, burning, destroying.

Then the first blow came, and the words were like a paper cut.

He keeled over, dropping to the floor and clutching his stomach. Of course, they used this opportunity to kick him while he was down. After a while, Kurt could no longer distinguish between punches and kicks and hits from the metal pipe that he was almost certain snapped one of his ribs in two. Each one was the same heart-stopping pain that made the same, single thought in his head scream, though it would be no louder than if he were whispering.

Was this how he was going to die, surrounded by homophobes in a stinky locker room? If one's greatness is measured by their last moments, their last words, their last thoughts, Kurt was about as great as that dumpster they would throw him into.

And, to be honest, Kurt wasn't really sure when it ended. He knew at some point it did because he was no longer crowded by sweat and skin and flesh, but those blows became phantom blows and continued on and on and on and on until it seemed like they would never end. Only one thing broke through his blocked mind, and that was the moment he was certain the rest of them were gone.

That was the moment that Karofsky's lips met his.

He couldn't hear well through the ringing in his ears, but he could make out parts of what he was saying and try to guess the rest. "You taste like blood," he thought Karofsky said. "God, those sounds you were making while we beat you up were really…" He stopped trying to guess then, throat filling with bile that spilled weakly over the side of his mouth. Disgusting. Vile. Horrid. There were no words.

"I'm sorry about this, I really am," Karofsky whispered, clear as day. How close was he? "But I can't let you tell anyone about this. Sleep tight, Hummel."

The last things he felt before he blacked out were the coldness of metal against his skull and a big, sweaty hand against his stomach.


	2. Learn By Heart

**Chapter Two: Learn By Heart**

_C__ode blue: An emergency situation in which a patient is in cardiopulmonary arrest, requiring a team of providers (sometimes called a 'code team') to rush to the specific location and begin immediate resuscitative efforts._

"Hurry! His heart's stopping!" the girl shouted over the unsteady beep of the heart monitor. The room flew into chaos, a buzz of men and women in blue scrubs scrambling to gets their hands on something, _anything_ that might make a difference.

"Code Blue! Code Blue!" shouted someone without a name in the background, and a man carried in a blue cart filled to the brim with medical supplies. Hands reached out, grabbing things and cutting things and sticking things in, but nothing seemed to be making a difference.

He watched, heart thumping, wishing in vain that his abundance of heartbeats could somehow be transferred into the flatlined monitor. After all, who needs that many? People flocked him, searching for guidance, what to do. Anyone who could lined up at the head of the bed, arms extended and pressing hard against the chest, switching out once they could no longer push at full strength. This was where the prideful were weeded out; saving a life did, and always had to, take priority.

A half hour passed, fluid bags emptied and replaced, the line exhausted and started up again before he finally decided that it was time. At the foot of the bed, a handsome man with dark curly hair sighed, looking around the chaotic room. He held up his hand, and everyone stopped and stared at him. Shaking his head he said, "Call it." Silence followed.

"Anderson, are you certain?"

He nodded, expression somber. "I'm afraid so, unless anyone can think of anything else. Call it."

It was almost palpable, the hearts of everyone in the room sinking into their stomachs. A woman by the head checked her watch and announced, "Time of death, 12:45 PM."

Silence. Blaine clenched his jaw, feeling a strong migraine come through. How could they have failed? This morning when he'd first gotten out of bed, he would never have thought…

Thank goodness this was only the mock final.

A sharp alarm pounded from the walls, and the voice of their professor came through the speakers. "Don't worry yourselves too much, guys. The final's not for another two weeks. And, hopefully, you won't have to resuscitate anyone in real life for another year or more." She sighed, and the class could almost see her rubbing her temples. "Who am I kidding, telling a bunch of med students not to worry themselves. Just… don't kill yourselves. Break for lunch, everyone."

* * *

The cafeteria of the hospital where their lab took place was as any hospital cafeteria is — a mix of loud children, solemn patients and family, and busy doctors, not to mention sub-par food. Blaine always did find it strange that the only options to eat were fast food and… well, defrosted fast food. His class sat together at a long table in the centre of the room, so quiet they could almost be mistaken for a comically large bereaved family made up of every gender, race, and religion.

"I'm started to regret taking emergency medicine as an elective," said Sebastian, his close friend in most of the same rotations. "Honestly, maybe I should have done forensic science instead of med school in the first place."

"Come on, Bas," Blaine cheered, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. "We've only got a year left, and then we're _doctors._ Isn't that crazy?"

"We need to _graduate_ to become doctors, Anderson," sneered Hunter. "After what just happened in there, I doubt that any of us will."

Shaking her head, Marley arrived with a tray topped with a single apple and a carton of chocolate milk and plopped into the seat beside Blaine. "I think all of you have the potential," she added, opening her drink. "You've made it this far, which means you're the best of the best. Don't let one mock exam crush your spirits."

"You were great in there, Marley," Blaine praised, bumping her fist. "Super calm, like we all need to strive for. Panic just clouds the judgment, and when it comes to saving lives, we can't afford that. Especially not in a code blue."

"And that," Sebastian began, popping open his soda can, "is why you were in charge. Honestly, how can you not freak out?"

Blaine just shrugged, stabbing his fork into his pasta. Tuning out of the conversation, he ran through the notes in his head one more time, trying to figure out what they had done wrong — if he had given the wrong order for fluids, if the CPR wasn't proper form, or if there was just nothing they could have done. As much as he hated to admit it, the last one seemed like the most realistic.

The truth is, he couldn't save everyone… even that stupid dummy.

But you know what they say about speaking ill of the dead.

"Earth to Blaine!" Marley whispered dramatically, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped out of his reverie, and she snorted in her adorable way. "Man, you were really out of it. Carrying the weight of the world on your mind again?"

"I believe the expression says shoulders."

Sebastian smirked. "Yeah, well, as great as your shoulders are…"

"Your mind seems to have a lot on it," Marley finished, glaring at Bas playfully.

"Yeah, well…" Blaine trailed off, catching sight of a familiar pristine white coat out of the corner of his eye. Setting down his fork, he stood up, excusing himself absent-mindedly. "I'll be right back." As he left, he didn't see Marley and Sebastian share concerned glances at one another.

He caught up to the white-coat doctor, who was walking through the hall with his phone out, scrolling through some kind of medical database app. His brown locks covered his eyes, but Blaine could tell he was tense from the tightness in his shoulders.

"Everything alright, doc?" he called out, leaning against the grainy wall. The doctor stopped and turned, a smile suddenly lighting up his handsome features.

"Hey, squirt! You had a lab this morning?" Cooper asked, ruffling his little brother's wild curls. Blaine nodded, pulling a sour face that made his brother chuckle. "I remember my emergency medicine rotation. Those were the days."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "Of course you remember this rotation — you liked it so much you decided to go into it, if I remember correctly, _Dr. Anderson_."

His brother grinned widely, showing his pearly teeth. "You know, soon enough there'll be two Dr. Andersons, and people are going to have to call us by both names."

"Fingers-crossed," Blaine replied, doing exactly that. "Anyway, are you working tonight?" Cooper nodded in affirmation. "Alright, I'll stop by your office with dinner."

"Sounds great, and I'm sure it'll sound heavenly once I've worked for twelve hours. What's on the menu? Chinese take-out again?"

"Actually," Blaine responded, pushing himself off the wall. "I was thinking Italian tonight."

* * *

By the time Blaine arrived at his apartment, Wes had already taken over the coffee table.

"Okay, Wes, you're my friend, but I'm worried about you. I think we need to have an intervention."

Wes chuckled dryly, rearranging his assortment of books scattered across the mahogany. "Hilarious, Blaine. You should quit med school and become a stand-up comedian."

He raised his eyebrows, watching his friend scribble on post-it notes and stab them furiously into a harmless manuscript. "After how the mock went, I might just consider it." Wes stopped, turning to his exhausted friend and immediately clearing a spot on the couch for him to sit.

"Do I need to break out the good stuff?" he asked, handing him a half-full glass of cheap liquor. Blaine downed it in one gulp, but shook his head anyway, leaning against the headrest.

"I'm just afraid that…" he trailed off, swallowing the large knot in his throat. Wes placed a hand on his knee, reassuring. "I'm afraid that the same thing will happen, but not during an exam…"

"Blaine, you know you can't save everyone," Wes comforted, all attention off his books and on his roommate. "But you can damn well try, and that's all anyone will ever ask of you."

"Not everyone," he mused, tracing the glass' rim with his finger. "Not me." At Wes' concerned stare, Blaine shook his head, laughing shakily. "But you know, I won't have to worry about this for another year or two. How about you? How was class today?"

"Ah, same old," he replied, gesturing to the books on the table. "Please tell me we weren't that obnoxious when we were kids."

"Teenagers, Wes." Blaine chuckled, troubles fading away. "And yes, we definitely were."

"Seriously, it's like none of them appreciate Shakespeare! One of them wrote, 'he's the guy who made Jaws.' Jaws!" At that, Blaine's small giggles turned into full-blown laughter, and after a moment of pretending to be offended, Wes joined him.

After they calmed down, Wes wiped a tear from his eye and asked, "Are you home for dinner today?"

Blaine shook his head. "Take-out with Cooper, I'm afraid. Speaking of which," he checked his watch, "I should head out now. Thanks for cheering me up, buddy." Grabbing his bag and wallet, Blaine pressed a light kiss on his friend's cheek before heading to the door.

Before the door closed, he saw Wes rolling his eyes and smiling fondly. Suddenly, he felt lighter, almost like the weight on his… mind had been lifted. He grinned, thanking his friend in his head, and allowed himself, just for a moment, to feel weightless, light, free of responsibility.

But… everyone knows Blaine Anderson was never destined to be careless.

* * *

"I come bearing pasta," Blaine announced as he stepped into his brother's office, two paper bags dangling from his hand. Cooper shot up from his computer, rushing over to his brother and snatching one from his hand.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you, squirt?" Cooper squealed like a child just told they were going to McDonald's, mussing Blaine's curls again before rushing back over to his desk and tearing open the package. He breathed in the heavenly scent, sighing to himself.

Blaine sat at the table, unpacking his bag. "I don't recall, actually. But you can make it up to me by not starving to death at work. Although, if you were to starve to death, I suppose the best place to do it would be at work…"

"Because I'm a doctor, yeah, I get it. Has anyone ever told you that you should be a stand-up comedian?"

He grinned to himself. "Once or twice." Clearing his throat, he picked up a fork. "What's the plan for tonight?"

"Well, I'm on call, so whatever happens I'm dealing with, I guess. Let's hope that's not a lot. Dare I say it, so far it's almost been… _quiet_."

Blaine gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his forehead. "Cooper! You've cursed the shift!"

"Oh! My apologies. I really should be more careful," he replied, grinning.

As they ate, the brothers talked about their days, weeks, sometimes even just the state of their lives. It was more often now that Blaine was back in Lima after undergraduate studies in New York that they could see each other, especially now that lots of Blaine's classes were at the hospital where Cooper worked. It was an arrangement that suited both of them, despite the fact that Blaine was… well, in Lima.

Not that he hated Lima — he would just rather be back in the city that had his heart. But after their father's death, leaving their mother alone and with no one to care for her, both brothers had concerted to return to their hometowns, and once Cooper found a job in the ICU and Blaine completed his bachelor's degree and gained acceptance in med school in Lima, there was really only one thing left to do: pack up and move back.

He tried not to long for the busy streets or the quaint cafés, for Times Square or Central Park, for the lights at night or the sunny days, but every night he would dream of being back there, of having completed medical school and having the perfect job at a hospital and still having time to sing at coffee shops at night, of going out with his friends and getting plastered but of having someone waiting at home to forgive his stupidity and take care of him the way he was so used to taking care of everyone else.

These were some of the few thoughts that Blaine never shared with his brother. He knew Cooper had dreams, too — packing it all up and moving to LA, making it big as an actor. In fact, when he looked up, he could still see the poster from his Free Credit Rating Today commercial hanging beside the degrees in his office. But both of them knew that this was their lives, and it was okay — they were happy. Really, they were… just not as happy as they had dreamed.

"You dreamed _what_?" Blaine exclaimed, barely saving himself from choking on his dinner roll. Cooper smirked, patting his brother (just a little too hard) on the back

"Oh, you know, that you and Sebastian were married, and I was your best man." Blaine blinked, eyes wide, staring at his older brother who rolled his eyes at him. "What? It's not like it's impossible. Probable, even."

"Cooper, you know that's not how it is with me and Bas. Besides, I don't want probable. I want… passion. Love. I want impossible." Blaine sighed, resting his chin on his hand dreamily. "Is that dumb?"

His brother shook his head fondly. "It's ambitious, not dumb."

"But do you think…?"

"I think I'm not the best person to ask," he explained, solemn look in his eyes. Blaine paused, lowering his gaze to the cracks in the table. Each second the silence dragged on, he could feel the stinging in his eyes turn into tears, and he blinked them back furiously, knowing that if he cried, so would Cooper… and they had only just gotten past that.

"Cooper-"

"Just drop it, please," he replied. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Okay." He poked at his dinner, not looking his brother in the eye. Even after six months, his brother couldn't help but shut down every time he tried to talk about _her_.

After a long moment of less-than-comfortable silence, a loud buzzing filled the room, breaking the men out of their reveries. Cooper sighed, grabbing his pager off his belt and shoving his half-eaten dinner aside. Blaine watched him distractedly, fiddling with the mouse on his brother's computer.

When Cooper stood abruptly, knocking his chair to the floor, Blaine's heart rate quickened. "What's wrong?" he yelped as Cooper tore his coat from the hook and jammed his arms through it. Instead of getting a response from his brother, however, Blaine was answered by the resounding click of the overhead speakers, followed by a code he had only ever known in textbooks.

_Code Orange._

He grabbed his cell phone, refreshing his email to find one from the hospital calling for anyone available. "Road accident — truck went rogue and ran over a bunch of pedestrians… there was a shooter. Ambos return in fifteen."

"I have to go, Blaine," Cooper stressed, digging through his on-call bag for his stethoscope. "Where is it?"

"Right here," Blaine answered, looping it around his brother's neck. "Stay calm, Coop."

Cooper hesitated for a moment before grabbing his brother's shoulders. "You need to come with me."

Blaine's eyes popped open, and he took a step back. "I haven't even graduated!"

"It's an emergency, squirt!"

"Cooper, I failed my code blue this morning! How could I possibly be of any help?"

"I believe in you," his brother told him, looking him square in the eyes. Blaine hesitated, and Cooper repeated his words. He nodded, and the men hurried towards the door, throwing it open to see others doing the same. All hands on deck.

It seemed that Lima wasn't so different from New York after all.

* * *

His hands were always full. Every second. He always had something to do; so often, in fact, that he didn't even have time to panic. This was what Blaine was good at — handling situations. That morning faded out of his memory, along with the self-doubt, the worry. All that was left was duty, responsibility. His specialty.

If you asked him the next day what happened in those first ten minutes after the ambulances arrived, he wouldn't be able to tell you. The adrenaline pumped through him, coursing through his veins as though it was rushing into him through an IV, and each task he completed with a level head was one less thing a doctor had to do. His heart was racing, but he felt good. Strong.

At least until _he_ was wheeled in.

The unconscious boy looked young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His pale white skin was cracked and stained with dark blood — a split lip, slash across his nose, and a black eye. But worst of all, there was a large gash on the back of his head, seeping blood that was drying in his chestnut hair.

Without pausing to think, Blaine rushed to the boy's side, spewing questions at the EMT. Cooper caught sight of them, rushing over and gently assessing the injuries. The boy was in critical condition, slipping in and out of consciousness, but seemed entirely delirious.

For the first time that night, Blaine was scared… as he didn't know why.

"No gunshot wounds," Cooper determined, checking his clipboard. "Shit, the staff are all occupied. Why didn't he arrive with the others?"

"He wasn't at the scene, doctor," replied the EMT. "Someone called from the high school, his brother. We believe he was assaulted by a classmate or someone in the building."

"Blunt force trauma to the head," Blaine said softly, cradling the boy's head in his hands and turning it gently to show his brother the wound. "Some kind of long metal object, like a crowbar. A different angle could have penetrated the skull."

"Doctor?" said the EMT, face heavy with barely-concealed emotion. "We believe there was sexual assault involved, at least to some extent. The patient was conscious when we arrived at the scene, hysterical. He was hostile to touch, which is common in…" The sentence trailed off, and Blaine's breath hitched in his throat.

"What's his name?" he asked as Cooper lifted up his shirt, wincing at the colour across his ribs.

"Kurt Hummel, seventeen years old. Student at McKinley High."

"And he was found by his brother? No sight of the perpetrator?"

The EMT shook his head. "Found by his step-brother, one Finn Hudson. The perp was gone when he found him."

"Is the step-brother here? Did he ride in the ambo?"

"No to both. Waited for his mother, I believe." With Cooper's dismissal, the EMT rushed back to the ambulance, leaving the brothers with the boy.

"So he has no one," Blaine whispered to himself, brushing a strand of hair out of the boy's swollen eyes. With tremendous effort, they opened for a moment and locked with his, and for that moment, Blaine was mesmerized by their stunning blue. "_Kurt_."

"Blaine." He jolted back to reality at his brother's sharp tone, catching his gaze. "We have to stabilize him. He has a pulse, but it's weak. Low blood pressure." Kurt had drifted back into consciousness, but Blaine could see the blank, confused look in his beautiful eyes, as though he had no idea where he was or what had happened.

Blaine's heart tightened in his chest when he began to sputter, and he quickly and carefully turned Kurt to his side where his injuries were less. Vomit spewed from his lips with an agonizing cough. "Aspiration. He's choking on his own vomit," Blaine stated. "Does that mean he could have sustained a mild brain injury?"

"Not necessarily," Cooper replied. "Look at the bruising on his abdomen. The emesis could be a result of injury to his digestive organs, or very well a concussion."

Kurt rolled onto his back, groaning painfully but quietly, as though he was subconsciously trying to keep quiet through the heart-wrenching pain. His eyes were closed again, and Blaine shook his head, whispering gently to the boy. "Stay with us, Kurt. Please."

Cooper stared at them, eyes wide. "Blaine, I… I can try to save him, but I need someone to assist."

"So find someone!" Blaine exclaimed. There was a moment between them that spoke for Dr. Anderson, and Blaine shook his head passionately. "No, Coop! I can't! I'll… I'll find you someone else! Someone better-"

"There is no one else," Cooper admitted, looking down at the broken boy on the stretcher. "Lima hasn't seen a situation like this in a long time, squirt, so everyone's already got their hands full. I need you, Kurt needs you. Please."

His heart hammered in his chest, each one seeming to go by faster with how little time he had. He really wasn't sure what to do, what was the right thing for Kurt — whether to risk helping his brother himself despite how little experience he had or waiting for someone better, wasting that precious time that seemed to be rushing by with every beat of his heart. And, also with every beat of his heart, Blaine couldn't help but notice how Kurt's was slowing...

Then, for just a second, Kurt's eyes opened again, those stunning pools of blue. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a hint of reassurance in them, as though Kurt had been following everything that had been said despite his delirium. Blaine took a deep breath and gave his answer.

"What do you need me to do?"

It was then, as Cooper gave him a solemn smile and started doling out instructions, that Blaine realized that the feeling weighing him down was no longer just responsibility — it was fear. Fear like he hadn't felt in a very long time. The kind of fear that makes your spine stiffen and your hands sweat, that makes everything you've ever experienced seem useless. The kind of fear that also relieves you, because you know it can't get any worse.

Only it did get worse, the second Kurt Hummel's heart stopped beating.


	3. Vending Machines

**Chapter Three: Vending Machines**

Careful not to make a sound, he crept through the hall, balancing his weight on the tips of his feet, glancing around to make sure he wasn't being watched. Heart racing, he slipped stealthily around the corner and into the room, silently rejoicing at his victory. He inched closer, even closer, and he was almost there, reaching his hand out with glory in sight…

"Finn Christopher Hudson, what in God's name do you think you're doing?" his mother chided, blocking the stove with her body. "I already told you, we're not eating until Kurt gets home."

"But mom," the large boy whined, stomping his foot childishly. "I'm starving!"

"Maybe you should have thought of that before leaving your brother to drive himself home," Carole stated, opening the pot and stirring around its contents. As the spicy smell wafted towards his nose, Finn's stomach churned, and a long whimper escaped his lips.

Burt, already sitting at the dinner table, lifted a finger in agreement. "Finn, you really shouldn't have left him there alone. But Carole, he's got a point. The stomach wants what it wants. We don't want the food to get cold, either."

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "It's on the stove, Burt. The stove that gives off heat, just to be clear."

Finn paused for a moment as the couple exchanged playful banter, reaching for his phone. Scrolling through the log, he saw it had been over an hour since he'd left Kurt with directions to the locker room. Strange… the school wasn't that far from their home. He brushed the thought away — Kurt must have seen a sale somewhere and decided to go late-night shopping, or even decided to get some schoolwork done at the public library that seemed to never close (not that Finn would know). But still, it was Friday Night Family Dinner, and Kurt knew that. He wouldn't just…

"Mom, I'm gonna go check something upstairs," he announced distractedly, making his way up to his bedroom when his mother voiced her acknowledgment. Grabbing his laptop, he logged into his email, pulling up the only one left unread. It was from Coach, detailing what had gone on at the meeting earlier that day. It was the usual — drills, game plays, cardio. As he was looking through the time stamps, he realized that the practice would have ended an hour before Glee was let out.

That didn't mean anything, right? He knew the football guys liked to pick on his brother, but he'd been so diligent at protecting Kurt during school. Leaving him alone couldn't have meant… no, who would wait around for an hour just to pick on his kind, innocent brother?

The answer to that: David Karofsky.

People called Finn a lot of things, both bad and good — handsome, athletic, sometimes not the cleverest. But while Finn wasn't academic or book-smart, he had a gut that always did him good (unlike Burt, who'd maybe had one too many beers over the years). Finn knew when something was wrong, or when someone he loved was in danger.

He didn't hesitate for a moment before grabbing the keys to Carole's minivan and speeding off towards the school, with barely a moment of explanation to their parents. He didn't even realize he'd forgotten his coat until he stepped out of his car into the school parking lot, and the penetrating cold bit through his skin and into his bones.

The lot was empty — almost. There was one car left, parked awkwardly in the middle of an otherwise vacant area, that stood out to Finn. There was something ominous about the dark of the moonless night swallowing the vehicle whole, something that drew him towards it. When he was close enough to see the silver scratches in the paint, he stopped.

It was his car.

The one Kurt was supposed to have driven home _hours ago._

"The one time I wanted to be fucking wrong," he cursed under his shaky breath, sprinting towards the school. Throwing the door open, he paused to catch his breath when his eye caught on a familiar pair of high-heeled boots tucked away behind a fake plant — clearly not meant to be hidden, only removed and put somewhere safe enough for a minute or two away.

They were Kurt's favourite.

As if he didn't already have enough reason to worry about his little brother. Carefully, he picked up the boots, cradling them to his chest like a football. Kurt would certainly never let him hear the end of it if he damaged his precious boots.

He rushed down the deserted hall, past trophy cases with his name on them, past his locker from freshman year, past the ball-and-chained library he'd only ever been in because the back row of dusty history books were excellent insulators of sound. He passed the choir room that held his favourite trophy of all and continued down to the gym, stepping into the locker room.

"Kurt?" he called out, voice bouncing off the confining walls. Finn had never felt anything but at home in this room, but in the dark of night without the cheer of a game, without his teammates clapping his back and sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, without knowing that Kurt was safe in the bleachers, complaining to Burt about how the rain was ruining his perfect 'coif' (whatever that meant), it seemed heavier, louder, like he could see it in the eyes of his brother.

But he couldn't see_ his brother. _

"Kurt, it's me. Where are you?" he called. After another moment of silence, he began to doubt that Kurt was here. Maybe he couldn't find the keys and got a ride from someone? Maybe his phone died? He relaxed, realizing that he had been worried over nothing. Kurt was fine.

If he wasn't, he would have called out, right? He would have made some kind of noise, anything...

Kurt wasn't here. Dinner was at home. It was time to go.

"Shit, it's cold out there," he mused, setting the boots down on a bench and rubbing the goosebumps on his arms. He figured he couldn't drive his own car home since he'd taken the minivan there and apparently the keys weren't even in his locker either, but he might as well grab his jacket while he was in the locker room.

When he took another step, the automatic lights turned on overhead, a familiar buzz that reminded him of summer cicadas. He found his locker, #5 to match his jersey, and pried it open, smiling sheepishly to himself when he realized that Kurt was right and he had, in fact, forgotten to lock it. His letterman jacket was there, hung on the middle hook with care, and he grabbed it and slid his arms through, warming up almost immediately. Cold fingers twitching, he stuck his hands in the pockets — his left hand slammed into a cold, sharp object, and he stopped, breath hitching in his throat. He pulled it out.

It was his keyring.

"There are so many reasons this could be here, Finn," he told himself, shaking his head. "Don't jump to the worst possible conclusion." It was unlike him; he was always one to see the bright side of things, even when no one else could. But you know that feeling you get when you know something bad is about to happen, that one that settles heavy on your shoulders and anchors your stomach to your feet, that one that makes you feel like you're walking through a horror movie? That was how Finn was feeling, and Finn's gut was never wrong.

When he turned around, his scream pierced the icy air like a knife dipped in the pit of the sun. It was a scream that echoed off the walls, leaving its own inky soot against them like a squash ball in a court, its design practically lost in the breadth of his brother's.

He suddenly wished that the lights would turn off again. He wished that the bloodstains on the floor led to a body that was anyone but _Kurt_, selfish as that may sound. He wished that Kurt's hair was in its perfect coif and not matted to his scalp, that his clothes were immaculate and not torn and clawed at, that his diligently moisturized skin wasn't split and sliced.

He wished he had driven Kurt home like he had promised that morning, when everything was better than okay, when he wasn't standing here wondering whether or not his brother's eyes would ever open again.

* * *

They ask questions to people who witness a crime. They ask for details, like what time it was, what cars were in the lot, what he was wearing. Then they ask harder questions, like who would want to hurt him, or had he been acting strange lately, or did he have any secrets. What they don't understand is the overwhelming pain that floods the mind during times like these, or the method by which it saves itself from shutting down completely — blocking, deflecting, hiding.

Hours passed. The tiny emergency ward held few empty chairs that night, and Finn gave his up to a tearful elderly widow. Of course, this meant he had idle feet, which led to him pacing across the floor until his mother stopped him with a hand on his arm. He broke down, curling up on her lap like a weeping child, clutching the fabric on her shirt. She didn't mention that he was getting far too large for this and just held him closer, gazing up at her husband beside her.

Few things could break Burt Hummel, as was a well-known fact. Few things could wrench tears from his eyes, shatter his heart, his soul. One of those things was Kurt's mother's death ten years ago. Elizabeth had been his soulmate, his one true love, the mother of his child; that wound would forever be there, had been open and bleeding for the better part of a decade, but his darling nurse had sewn it up with expert hands. But this time… Burt was quite sure that no one could fix this. Nothing could fix this. Not the sun, moon, or stars.

Just his son, his moon and stars. His universe.

He'd been in a hospital many times throughout his long life, the most recent being a follow up after his serious heart attack. And, while that had been terrifying, this was darker. This wasn't the will of nature; it reeked of man. So, instead of feeling helpless, he could feel vengeful.

Anyone who looked at him would tell you there was murder in his eyes.

Officers were still asking Finn questions when the code came over the speakers. Even if they hadn't known what it meant, the cloud of doctors rushing into the OR spoke for itself. This was, again, hazy from Finn's narrative; it all comes back to pain in the end. All he could really remember were the softness of Carole's cotton blouse and the way the officers had to hold his step-father back as he shouted in the direction of Kurt, flailing his arms and crying fat tears. He couldn't even remember what he had been shouting, other than an abundance of the name that couldn't seem to leave his head. Even then he didn't hear Burt's voice, but a warped sound that spun in his ears and made his head throb.

Burt sat down eventually, and they kept on waiting. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting. There was nothing else for them to do, lest they focus their energy on something entirely self-destructive like the mechanic seemed to be doing. And Finn… Finn's mind was like a broken record player, and all he could see was _that_, whether his eyes were open or closed. And the _guilt_… the guilt was just selfish. Sure _he_ felt like death, sure _he _was being torn apart at the seams, but _Kurt_…

So he closed his eyes, and he rested against his mother, not asleep but not awake, in this wholly separate state of just being _there_, but not really.

* * *

"What does that even mean?" Carole asked, clutching her husband's arm and weaving her fingers into her son's messy hair.

"It's like he's there, but not really," Burt murmured, breathing shakily through his nose. "Alive, but not awake. Fate's cruelest joke on the people who love him."

Dr. Anderson sighed, glancing back in the direction of the room before turning to face the family. "His response to stimuli is minimal, at best. We believe the part of his brain responsible for wakefulness is not functioning properly, and we have diagnosed him to be comatose. But favourably, we have found that some brainstem areas are still functioning, like his pupils responding to light."

"So he will wake up?" Carole asked with bated breath, gaze boring into every crevasse in the doctor's face. "Our son will wake up?"

"I'm afraid that, while a positive sign, these functions do not indicate when, or if, Kurt will regain consciousness," Dr. Anderson replied, pity heavy in his eyes.

"What can we do?" Finn whispered, gaze firmly planted on the tiles below his feet.

Dr. Anderson gave him a hopeful, sympathetic smile. "You can speak to him, let him know you're there. Talk to him as though he were awake. If he can hear you, I'm sure he'll appreciate it." His smile faltered, and he sighed softly. "Otherwise, I'm afraid it's up to him. But, from what I've seen and heard, he's a strong one."

"Thank you, doctor," replied Carole, the other two lost in their all-consuming thoughts, unable to speak. Finn wasn't quite certain, but he thought he saw the doctor nod, and then he was gone. He hadn't given the man much thought; he was just a face. Sure, he'd been the one in there with his brother, but that idea was of a reality that he wasn't a part of.

In that moment, Finn's thoughts were so occupied by the image of his brother's broken body that he didn't have enough of himself left over to hold himself together.

That night, Friday Night Family Dinner was made up of granola bars from the hospital vending machine.

* * *

The next forty-eight hours were spent standing in one corner or another; Burt had a monopoly on the chair by Kurt's bed (hands grasped together in a way that reminded him too much of when Burt was in his place), and there was nowhere else to plop his butt down. He supposed he could have found something, but to be honest, he would rather have stood. That way, he had an excuse to stare at the floor as he put one foot in front of the other, pacing along the threshold, too frightened and ashamed to go any further inside.

Still, during those forty-eight hours, Finn never once left the hospital, despite what he told his mother. Instead of heading home, the nights he spent in pitiful, disturbed sleep in the cold, loud waiting room while Burt slept, hunched over his son's crumbling form. Carole watched over her husband, pacified with the thought that Finn was at home, sleeping in his own bed — any guilt he felt over lying to his mother was just added to the pile already working at tearing apart his soul.

It was only on the third day that Burt finally caved and let Carole drag him out to take a shower. For a while, Finn just stood in the doorway, watching the breath go in and out of his brother through the ventilator. The chair by his bed was empty with both Carole and Burt away at the same time — for the first time — and it looked wrong, desperate, like Kurt was begging him to come closer… and so he did, resting gently in the chair as though he wasn't worthy to fill his step-father's shoes.

"The doctor said that maybe you can hear me," he began, not touching the boy but staring intently at where his arm rested against the mattress, unable to look at his bruised face, "so I figured I'd start from the beginning. It's been three days since… what happened. You're in a coma, by the way. I don't know what it feels like in there, so I just thought I'd let you know."

Finn took a deep breath. "I don't know exactly what happened to you, Kurt, but I think I know. Honestly, though, I hope to God I'm wrong because there's nothing worse than what my imagination has come up with. Please, just wake up and tell me that none of it is true… that I've made it all up in my head. And I know this sounds selfish, but it's crushing me. It's so heavy. I can't…"

His throat closed up, and he wiped the tears from his eyes. He laughed humourlessly. "Would you look at that, I'm crying. Now all I need is for you to wake up and make fun of me for it. Not that you would — guys can cry, too. That's what you would say. I guess you were right. I am crying, after all."

Resting his head against the soft bedsheets, Finn closed his eyes, letting his tears get soaked up by the white fabric. Exhausted, he whispered three little words to his brother before dozing off into a deep, dreamless sleep. Soon after, Carole returned, a soft, sad smile spreading across her features at the sight. She gently placed a blanket over her son's curled up form, sitting herself down in the plastic chair she'd brought with her, soon joined by her husband.

In the melancholy quietude that followed with them wrapped up in each other, neither one of them noticed the man with gorgeous black curls and a straight-lipped smile turn solemnly away, heart swirling chaotically with a mix of warmth and sorrow.


	4. Coffee and Dandelions

**Chapter Four: Coffee and Dandelions**

Blaine loved the winter. He loved the feeling of snow melting in his untamed curls, his rosy cheeks tingling as the breeze nipped at them like an affectionate puppy, the dandelions turning white and puffy as they blew in the raw wind. He loved the smell of wood and chocolate, the sight of frozen lakes and naked trees, and most of all, the taste of the Lima Bean coffee that was, for the next three months, in charge of keeping him from dying of hypothermia (or suffering from the tragic illness known as the hospital cafeteria). But, even though he loved all of these things, Blaine was not well-known for sitting out in the cold on the two-foot-wide balcony of their tiny apartment with his overheated laptop as his only source of heat, which is why his roommate was currently digging around the cupboards for the warmest blankets he could find.

As he wrapped the Disney blanket around the shivering man's shoulders, Wes sighed, resting a hand tentatively on the laptop. "Come inside, Nightbird. We need to talk."

At the serious tone of his voice, Blaine looked up and nodded. Wes gently pushed the device shut, escorting Blaine back into the room and latching the door.

Hazel eyes stared uneasily up at him, but their owner remained silent as Wes darted around the kitchenette, assembling his uninspired but well-meaning version of a medium drip. The coffee changed hands, and Blaine brought it to his chapped lips, wincing as cold mug touched his skin, not yet warmed by the boiling liquid. "Thank you," he whispered, too afraid to break the peaceful atmosphere that seemed to only have settled around him.

Yet for some reason, Wes was compelled to match his tone. "You know I would do anything for you," he muttered, taking the opposite seat. Blaine frowned, eyebrows scrunching.

"It's a coffee, Wes."

"I know." He eyed the laptop on the counter. "But I need you to know that."

"I do," Blaine replied.

Wes leaned forward. "Answer me this, Blaine. Why were you out there in the cold?"

"The WiFi is better out there," he stated matter-of-factly yet without meeting his friend's gaze. "I needed to get some research done."

"Blaine, look at me." He lifted his head, and Wes saw in his eyes a muddle of exhaustion, unhappiness, and the unfailing dedication he had become accustomed to over the years. "I know you have finals in two weeks, but this is ridiculous. Please, you need to take care of yourself if you want to take care of others."

Lips parting, Blaine nodded, looking almost relieved. "They should put that on a t-shirt and sell it at the hospital," he joked, a hollow air to his voice as he downed the rest of his drink.

Picking up the empty mug, Wes eyed him, worry etched on his face. "Go to bed, B. You need to be in class bright and early."

Blaine rose, taking his fogged glasses off and folding in the sides. "Thanks again, Wes. And goodnight." Disappearing into his bedroom, Blaine's footsteps quieted, and the roommate settled himself onto a stool in front of the counter.

Pulling the discarded laptop towards himself, Wes hesitated, glancing back towards the closed bedroom door. Blaine was nowhere in sight, and the quiet, breathy snores that Wes only heard when the man was really and truly exhausted carried into the kitchen, just as melodious as his singing voice.

There was a fine line he drew between caring for his friend and invading his privacy, but Wes knew when something was wrong. And right now? Something was wrong.

He cracked open the laptop, typing in the password. There, opened, were several tabs across the top of the screen; from what he could see, they were made up of medical jargon. It was far out of his realm of understanding but enough for him to gather that Blaine was studying head trauma in extensive detail.

That was normal. Blaine was a med student studying medicine. Maybe Wes' instinct was wrong, just this once.

Even then, as he guiltily closed the laptop and shoved it away from himself, the pit in his stomach would not ease. Perhaps it was indigestion, or maybe a stomach ulcer. He figured he'd best consult WebMD.

* * *

To bring himself to the Lima Bean after classes, Blaine had to force one foot in front of the other. He was certain he'd have bailed and settled for instant coffee had anyone other than Marley and Sebastian been waiting for him there - Marley because she was too sweet to disappoint, and Bas because he would have kicked him where it hurt if he deserted them again. Luckily for him, there was a steaming medium drip waiting at the table when he arrived, and suddenly he felt a little less like death incarnate.

"Thank you. You are my life force," he breathed, immediately taking a long gulp. Coffee and research seemed to be all he did these days.

"You're clearly talking to the coffee, but thanks," Marley laughed, shaking her head. "It's nice to see you again, Blaine."

"You saw him an hour ago," Bas pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but we haven't hung out like this for ages," she replied, taking a sip of her own drink. "Don't get me wrong, I love school. But this is where the real party is at."

Blaine smiled into his styrofoam cup. "Quite a party this is."

"Shut up! You know what I mean," she giggled, glaring at him. Her face contorted weirdly as she wore the conflicting expressions on it. Dipping his finger in the cupcake she ordered, Blaine swiped icing across her nose, and she shrieked with laughter, flushing when she realized that they were still in public.

"Ass," she muttered, shooting him a badly-concealed smile.

Bas smirked. "You guys are adorable together."

Blaine snorted, flipping him off, and Marley mirrored his movements. "He's more likely to end up with Hunter than with either of us," she pointed out, hands on her hips.

Sebastian faked hurt. "I'm wounded. Are you saying I'm not his type?"

"Not a chance in Hell," Blaine interjected.

"You might wanna tell Cooper that," he retorted, hiding a knowing smile behind his cappuccino. Blaine slammed his hand down on the table dramatically.

"Damn that son of a-"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. He merely told me about a lovely dream of his." He grinned, wide and eerie like a Cheshire cat. "Besides, isn't it you who always goes on about dreams?"

Blaine scowled. "Touché."

"I think it's sweet," Marley intervened. "The way we choose to live our lives... we've sacrificed a lot. None of this is how we imagined we'd be back when we were teenagers. But keeping that hope, wanting for love, I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

The two men fell silent, lost in the meaning of her words. "I wish we'd known you back then," Blaine mused as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The tug in his chest, the emptiness that had been growing and growing was threatening to tear open right then and engulf him.

"I don't know that you would have liked me," she replied uncertainly, eyes hardening a smidge as she stared at her untouched brownie. "I was... different."

"I think we all were," Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair. "We grew up, realized things that changed us, that changed our dreams. All I wanted was to get out of school and never look back, and now here we are." He coughed a couple times before breaking his demeanour, grinning wildly once again. "At least Christmas is close."

"But so are finals," Blaine added nonchalantly, resisting the urge to grab his book bag and start studying right there and then.

Marley groaned, attempting to ignore the awkward air of broken seriousness. "Finals are a bitch."

"No, not just *a* bitch. Several bitches. Like, in a line, waiting to pummel my ass," Sebastian complained. "I'm especially screwed for the code blue lab."

He paused, glancing at Blaine. They had been careful of mentioning the incident at the hospital, since Blaine had been the only one there. He hadn't been the same since, and neither had the rest of the hospital staff - it had been a long and hard night, the worst Lima had seen in their careers, and it still wasn't resolved. Not until everyone who had come in was either dead or alive, nothing in between.

"You can ask about it," Blaine said, fiddling with his cell phone. "I'm not sure I'll be much help, but you can always ask."

And so they did. Blaine answered as much as he could, but he could hardly remember anything before... before *his* arrival. The blur of papers and IVs and things he could do in his sleep had been broken by returning sirens and a blue-eyed boy on a stretcher who needed things that Blaine couldn't give him - and for Blaine, that was the worst possible thing.

Blaine Anderson was the man who took care of everyone but himself, and he was okay with that. But Kurt?

He needed to take care of Kurt.

* * *

"Those are lovely," said the grey-haired woman behind the counter. Her eyes crinkled around the corners as her lips turned up, watching him finger the petals of a vibrant bouquet. He was focused, stopping at each display and analyzing, as though he was a computer and his eyes had the capability to determine which flower would bring his companion the most joy merely by having them by the bed, illuminated by whatever light the bedroom window allowed in. There was a curiosity, too, as it was not love she saw in his expressive eyes - rather, emotion just as intense, but of a different origin.

"Yes," he replied, not appraising or being polite, only stating an objective fact. They were intricate, cylindrical yet tangled like wrestling eagles, white as the fresh sheets of a hotel bed - not roses but a different kind of flower that he didn't know the name of. He wanted them for that reason, too, as they were just as beautiful and deserved the recognition. Blaine was always one to appreciate beautiful things... like those flowers.

She stepped out from behind the counter, grabbing a paper wrap. "For a special someone?" He did not reply, too entranced in the light of the flowers. They were not illuminated by the frosted window, no... they seemed to be creating light from within them, as though they were little pieces of the sun on Earth, and each second his eyes perceived such beauty, the hole in his chest grew larger, wider.

"Hmm?" he hummed, brought back by her gentle hand on his shoulder. "For a... an acquaintance. Recently in the hospital."

"May your acquaintance recover in good health," she replied, eyeing the bouquet.

Blaine tensed. "Thank you." The woman moved to pick up the bouquet to wrap, but he stopped her with a gentle hand. He continued, voice constricted, "Please, do me one favour, and I will buy a dozen bouquets."

She froze, stunned. "What is it?"

"Please," he croaked, tears filling his eyes, "sell these flowers to someone truly in love."

A dozen colourful bouquets in his trunk but not one of pure, beautiful white, Blaine drove towards the hospital with tears drying on his cheeks and three fleecy dandelions resting gently on the passenger's seat, picked carefully from the ground outside the flower shop.

* * *

Maybe it had been hours, or seconds, or minutes or even enough time so that the sun had set completely and the moon, hiding in its shadow for so long, had finally risen to the top of the sky and was riding out its maybe nine or ten hours of fame, but however long it had been, Blaine did not notice. He didn't notice the thick, chemical smell of iodoform or the throbbing headache he got from staring at the uniform white walls. He didn't notice the constant wail of sirens or the incessant ring of telephones, the heavy air of loss or the passionate devotion of gain.

What Blaine did notice, however, were the waves of the heart monitor and the mechanical rise and fall of the sleeping boy's chest.

He watched vigilantly, yet still out of the corner of his eye, holding on desperately to his styrofoam cup of coffee. It was half empty, having lost its heat long ago, and had the consistency of... well, cold coffee. Still, he took mindless sips of it.

Rise, fall. Rise, fall. He checked - the monitor was steady. He looked back. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. A sip of coffee without removing his eyes.

The room wasn't empty; it never was. Not in the last four days. Well, there had been a moment on the third day at 11:56 pm when the middle-aged man and his wife had left the room, but a boy had taken their place, just as miserable. He looked about Kurt's age, perhaps in his late teens. He must have been Finn Hudson, the step-brother, the one who found... the body.

Blaine waited outside, always. He watched Kurt's vitals from out of sight, made certain he was never too far; he began to study in his brother's office after school, sometimes even sleeping there or in a call room (his brother had connections, but unfortunately was in the habit of asking questions, to which Blaine was in the habit of bullshitting answers). In class, his feet tapped against the floor anxiously, and his mind was far away.

It wasn't like Blaine didn't wonder why he was so fixated on the unconscious boy. He even debated asking Wes, who had a dual degree in psychology and English literature - of course, he ruled out that option, as it was basically signing up to never see Kurt again, the mere thought of which made his stomach churn and his throat close up. He concluded that his preoccupation was just because Kurt was his first real challenge, his first chance to do what he had been studying for almost seven years. He told himself that until Kurt was one way or the other, alive or... dead, he wouldn't have closure, his job wouldn't be done.

That was why his heart clenched with every irregular heartbeat, why he couldn't concentrate when he was far away. That was why he felt weaker with every passing day that Kurt remained comatose in that bed, why he could never, despite noticing every blue thing in sight, find the shade of his eyes anywhere else, as though there was no name to the colour, no other object on the face of the Earth with the same hue.

It was because he needed closure that he felt all of those things.

On the twelfth night of Kurt's coma, Blaine found himself outside of an empty room. The frightening man with murder in his eyes, the tender woman by his side, and the boy whose eyes carried the guilt of a million prisons were out of sight, perhaps down in the cafeteria or out by the curb, getting some fresh air. It seemed almost unfit for such characters to be in as mundane a place as this, as though their destiny was to be out there, as though they had a purpose. Kurt Hummel was not exempt from this observation.

The lights were off in the room, making Blaine's tired eyes droop as they landed on the boy. Illuminated by the light beneath his bed, he was as always, motionless on the uncomfortable hospital mattress, wires protruding from his body at every angle. The superficial bruises on his face had faded, the cut on his lip mending, and his beauty only grew with each passing day.

Closer than he had been in weeks, Blaine stood in the threshold, listening to the hum of the vending machine at the end of the hallway, watching the monitor light up, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen; after a moment, two, three, he began to measure time by the number of Kurt's heartbeats. He could measure everything by Kurt, he realized in a dangerous thought.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but stayed so far away that the handle pressed into his back painfully. Clearing his throat, he whispered into the darkness a simple, "Hello."

The darkness did not reply, not that he expected it to. "I'm Blaine," he croaked, voice hoarse and dry from lack of use, as he stepped further inside. "You're Kurt, right? I don't know if you remember me, but we met twelve nights ago when you visited the hospital."

Hesitantly, he sat in the bedside chair. "I'm sorry if this is too personal, but I've been... wanting to talk to you for a while. I don't really know why. And I'm scared-" He stopped abruptly. "Look at me, complaining about being scared. You must be terrified. I don't know what it must feel like in your head right now, Kurt." His hand hovered over the boy's, but he shook his head, retracting it.

"Please," he whispered, unconsciously leaning away from him as though he would break at an accidental touch. "If you can hear me, try something for me. Just... take a moment. Push away all the bad things around you, and focus on this, right now."

A pause. The clearing of a throat. A gentle melody filling the air, rough and scratchy and the most beautiful sound to ever fill that dismal hospital room. The pop song, while having entirely unfitting lyrics for the situation, was somehow perfect in that moment, and the gentle tenor seemed to change the meaning entirely.

As he finished the last chorus, Blaine let out a meaningful breath. "I remember hearing that song on the radio for the first time," he murmured. "It reminded me of how love is supposed to feel. I figured you could use some reminding that, no matter how dark it gets in there, love will always be real out here." He placed his hand beside Kurt's on the bed, not touching but with enough pressure to dip the bed slightly. "_Courage_, Kurt. I'll see you soon."

Blaine stood, having said his piece. He left, not knowing how long it would be before he got another moment with Kurt. Outside the room, he stopped at the glass window overlooking the room. He ran his finger along the dusty windowsill where a glass vase sat, the delicate home to eleven wispy dandelions. Inside, he placed another. Twelve dandelions for twelve days.

It was nearing midnight now, and the thirteenth day was approaching, but Blaine knew there was no space left in the vase. His heart began to pound, palms sweaty as panic overwhelmed him.

It was at that exact moment, 11:59 pm on the twelfth night of his coma, that Kurt's heart monitor exploded into a frenzy of deafening beeps.


	5. Assign From Heaven

**Dedicated to Cory Allan Michael Monteith (May 11, 1982 - July 13, 2013). Forever in our hearts. Thank you for touching my life and so many others with your beautiful soul. Rest in peace.**

* * *

**Chapter Warnings: Violence, mentions of non-graphic sexual assault, possibly offensive language (including slurs)**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Assign From Heaven**

One week and three days. The halls of McKinley were rowdy as usual, as though nothing had changed, no one was gone, but Finn knew that it had been one week and three days since something had changed, since someone had gone — well, more like one week, two days and thirteen hours up until this lunch hour where Finn was sat in the choir room listening to the incessant chatter of his friends when all he could do was sit silently and try not to lose himself in his own head.

Mr. Schue's back was turned to them as he wrote something on the whiteboard, and Finn swore he could hear the squeak as the marker hit the cool surface, even through the ear-shattering noise from his classmates. It was Finn's first day back at school, and he knew what would be written on that board — some crap about grief, dealing with loss, some bullshit comfort about his brother. When would they realize that he didn't need their half-hearted agony? When would they understand that laughing and forgetting about Kurt only to turn around and cry when they saw Finn was worse than forgetting entirely?

Hate rose inside of him, swirling around his chest, killing everything that used to see the good in people, that used to appreciate their words and affections, when his mother's words filled his head: _Everyone grieves differently, sweets_. And so, as Mr. Schue turned around to reveal Monday's well-meaning but hurtful assignment, Finn clung to those words and caught his breath, looking around at his friends. They loved him, and they loved Kurt. They were not the enemy. He turned back to the board.

The assignment wasn't about pain or mourning. As Finn's eyes drunk in the letters, the edges of his mouth turned up.

_Memories_.

Mr. Schue set the marker down, leaning against the wall. "I know this has been a difficult time for all of us," he began, gaze wandering across the bleachers without singling out Finn, "but instead of dwelling on the hard parts, this week's assignment is to remember the good parts."

Instead of leaving them with that, the teacher sat down on the piano bench, wiggling his fingers over the ivory keys. "This is one of my favourites," he announced. Finn didn't know whether he was talking about the song or the memory. Maybe both. A familiar tune filled the room as everyone fell silent, listening to the nostalgic melody accompanied by Schue's gorgeous tenor.

Mr. Cellophane. The song Kurt auditioned for the New Directions with. A song Finn often heard his brother sing in the shower, the sweet voice carrying through the house. His throat tightened and tears welled in his eyes, but the tiny smile on his lips widened. Humming along gently, he allowed the tears to fall down his cheeks. As the last chords rang out, Rachel reached over and wiped them away with her thumb.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered brokenly into his ear, resting her forehead on his arm. She repeated those words, muffled by his sweater, and he let her say them, knowing that nothing he said could console her and that she would just have to forgive herself in time. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, Finn caught Schue's eyes, thanking him with a small nod. The teacher smiled solemnly, resuming his position in front of the board.

"Your task is to prepare a song and perform it this week. You can do solos or group performances, but try to stick to the theme. You have the rest of the lunch period to get started." He made to leave but paused. "Oh, and guys? Don't be afraid. This is an important one."

Finn watched in awe as he left. How had he managed to dedicate the entire assignment to Kurt without once saying his name? How had he managed to make Finn feel supported without singling him out? He sat there for a moment as the others sprung to action, just thinking. Teaching Glee was about more than songs and music, more than costumes and choreography. It was about using those things to impact people.

He turned to Rachel. "Do you want to sing with me?"

"I think you should do a solo," she replied, rubbing his shoulder. "If anyone here has something meaningful to say, it's you."

"What about you?"

"I'll think of something." She stood up, glancing at Mercedes across the room before pecking Finn's cheek. "Good luck."

"You too," he muttered, watching her prance over to her sometimes-friend.

It was Monday, so he had five days to come up with something and perform it. At least he had something to keep him busy while he waited in the hospital waiting room for something he wasn't sure would ever happen or something he never wanted to happen. He grabbed his phone and searched through his list of songs. The entire contents of his downloaded music passed by, but nothing caught his eye.

Frustrated, he tossed his phone back into his bag and fisted his fingers through his hair. Why couldn't he just pick a damn song? Nothing seemed right, felt right. Nothing could do justice to his relationship with his brother. Nothing had such great memories attached to it that he could put all of his pain into singing it and still come out smiling.

Nothing in his phone, that is.

He shot up abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. As he headed for the door, Artie stopped him. "Where are you going, man?"

"Home," he replied, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as he left.

Artie's voice followed him into the hallway. "What about calculus?"

Finn rolled his eyes. "Fuck that."

* * *

He was, at most, three feet away from the microwave. _Three feet. _There went that excuse for why he was mindlessly picking at the cold leftover pasta that he'd made for his dinner date with Emma. To be fair, Will had already eaten about a third of it before he even noticed it was cold, and at that point, he was well past caring.

His girlfriend, however, gave him a different impression. "William Schuester," she chided, button nose folding in a way that made him want to squeeze it. "Why in God's name are you disrespecting that linguini? If you get indigestion, I won't even feel sorry for you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

Her lip found its way between her teeth and settled there comfortably. "Okay, fine. I would feel a little sorry. But that doesn't mean I didn't warn you!"

"Okay, okay." He lifted his hands in the air in surrender, only to glance back down at the Tupperware container and back at her pointedly. She rolled her eyes and laughed softly, gesturing for him to put his arms down and pick it up.

As he turned to the microwave, a soft "goofball," made him smile, and he shifted so he could see the lightness on her face. When he turned back, Sue was at the machine, shoving in what looked like an empty glass container and setting it to ten minutes.

_What. The. Hell. _

She smirked, leaning against the wall, looking obnoxiously smug in her red tracksuit. "What? You snooze you lose, Weepy the Vest Clown."

Breathing deeply through his nose, Will sighed, fists balling at his sides. "Ten minutes? You aren't even heating anything."

"You don't know that. Could be food, could not be food." She sipped her coffee. "Schuester's cat."

He blinked, tiredness exuding from him. "I have no idea what that means, and I honestly don't give a fuck."

"Of course you don't, that joke was much too sophisticated for you, Macaroni Hair."

Coach Beiste interrupted, glaring at her. "Come on, Sue. Everyone's had a tough couple of weeks."

She raised an eyebrow mockingly. "And why is that, She-Hulk?"

"You know why!"

"No, I really don't. I'm fine as a fiddle. Dandy as a… dandelion?"

Beiste's nostrils flared as she stared the cheerleading coach down in the teacher's lounge. "How can you be so… happy? Nothing is okay! Nothing!"

Sue set down her mug, eyes narrowing. "I never said I was happy, numbnuts. Just that I'm fine. Try to get that through that pumpkin-shaped skull of yours."

"Don't you care at all?" Beiste roared. The room had gone silent and somehow seemed emptier than it had just minutes before. Teachers were a lot of things, including clever. "We're supposed to take care of them! It's our job!"

"Our job is teaching them." She shrugged. "Maybe this was just one of his lessons."

The slap that followed resounded across the four walls of the small room. Sue clasped her cheek, covering the reddening skin. Eyes wide, the football coach backed up, cradling her hand and the tingling fingers.

Will shook his head, pressing the stop button on the microwave. "You had that one coming, Sue. For a long time."

"Look," Beiste began, "I'm sor-"

"No, don't be," she replied, stretching her jaw. "I'm impressed. Never thought you put that pair of balls to use."

The coach reddened. "You know what, I take that back. You're a cold-hearted bitch, Sue Sylvester. How could you even say that about Kurt?"

She sighed. "Ok, listen up and listen good because I will never say this again. _I didn't mean what I said_."

Will placed a hand on Beiste's shoulder. "People grieve in different ways, Shannon. This is her twisted-to-hell way of coping with the guilt."

Sue leered at him. "Speak for yourself, Cory Matthews. I don't feel guilty about anything, ever, and certainly not about this."

"How?" Beiste asked, anger ebbing away from her voice, replaced by genuine curiosity and perhaps a little envy. "It eats me up every night. I can't stop seeing his face when I close my eyes. How do I let go of the fact that I was the last person to see him? That I could have… stopped it? Saved him? Why can't I?"

"Because your estrogen-lacking, hormonal jock brain can't comprehend that what happened to Porcelain _was not your fault_?" Sue supplied sincerely. She may have been a lot of things, including a cold-hearted bitch, but she had always had a soft spot for Kurt.

Will nodded. "She's right. She's not gentle, but she's right. It wasn't your fault, Shannon."

"Thank heavens, Butt-Chin is finally making sense."

"It was mine," he completed.

Sue groaned loudly. "You're all a bunch of idiots."

"No, it was my fault. I gave him the solo for sectionals earlier that day, but he wasn't happy. He seemed different than our Kurt. Sad. I should have known something was wrong."

"Me too," Emma added, shifting uncomfortably and taking quick, sharp breaths. "I'm their guidance counsellor. It's quite literally my job. I failed Kurt."

Slamming her hand down on the counter, Sue shouted, "Will you all shut up? You're talking like he hurt himself. _He. Was. Attacked. _Do your little pea brains understand me? _Attacked_. Meaning the only person who is at fault is the person who attacked him. Make sense?" Quieter, she continued, as if more to herself than to them. "You couldn't have known. You couldn't have."

A moment passed before Will could gather himself enough to respond. "Sue's right. We couldn't have known, but we could have looked out for him better. But what's done is done, and all we can do is do better in the future. We love our jobs, and this is a big part of them."

"Some people like to pass the blame around, and some prefer to keep it. Like a football, or something. I don't know." Sue averted her eyes, but Beiste could sense the sincerity. "I, for one, think blame is a stupid concept and whoever invented it should be castrated with a butter knife."

Will winced. "Yeah, okay, Sue."

Her expression shifted, comforting to deadly. "Speaking of castrating people with butter knives… did they ever figure out who did this to Porcelain?"

* * *

Karofsky was in his usual place when Finn returned to school two days later — surrounded by the football team, blocking a row of lockers that probably belonged to the mathletes. Blood running red hot through his veins at the sight, Finn tuned them out, focusing on the gentle melody in his ears that always made him grin. Kurt's iPod weighed down his pocket as he headed to class.

Every seventy minutes, the interaction repeated itself like clockwork. Finn, flanked by the Glee club, would pass by the jocks, lazing around as though they had nowhere to be. By the time the final bell rang and they all met in the choir room for after-school Wednesday rehearsal, Finn was sure he knew every word to the song, every note in the melody, and every flourish he wanted to add to make it more _him_. He knew it like the back of his hand, and he was ready to perform.

"Mr. Schue, I'd like to go today," he announced as the teacher settled in.

Schue glanced up at him and grinned. "Sounds good. Anyone else ready?" Rachel and Mercedes exchanged a look before their hands simultaneously shot up. "Duet?" They nodded. "Great. Finn, you're up first."

The boy stood, making his way over to the band and handing them their sheet music before dragging a stool to the center of the room and sitting down on it. Clearing his throat, Finn steeled himself. "I know this assignment is supposed to focus on good memories, and for most of you this wasn't one, but for me, it was. Not because of the circumstances, but because of the outcome." Already feeling tears in his eyes, he pressed his feet against the stool to keep himself from running away. "Maybe it's superstitious, but if I sing it too… maybe things will turn out the same."

Turning in his chair, he signalled to the band to begin playing and looked up at the bleachers. Taking a deep breath, Finn opened his mouth to sing. "Yeah, I'll tell you something," he sang, soft yet heavy with a love only made stronger by misguided hate. "I think you'll understand…" As he progressed through the adapted ballad, his gaze wandered across the faces of his friends, lingered on his girlfriend, before dropping to the floor in an attempt to mask the tears welling in his eyes.

"I want to hold your hand," he finished, so quiet by the end that only he could hear. The teens didn't clap when he was finished, nor did they hoot and holler and clap each other's hands and backs like they usually did when one of their own sang for them. This time, they put their heads down and, in a miracle, none of them said a word.

It had been one week, six days and seventeen hours. No matter how many songs they sang, hope only ran so far. There was going to have to be a moment where they realized he wasn't coming back... so why not let that be right now?

In the pin-drop silence, Finn's mind raced — not only inside his head but through the city, to the hospital and back to the choir room. But, while it was loud up there, the physical space around him could not have been more silent. That's why everyone heard when it was interrupted by a snicker from the open doorway accompanied by a loud "_fag_."

Finn's eyes flew open, and all he could see was red.

There must have been a quote out there to explain the troubled boy, some insightful comment by someone who dedicated their life to making insightful comments, but all he could say about Karofsky in that moment of violence was that he was… well, a fucked-up son of a bitch.

And so he screamed that in his face as he sprung from his chair and out of the room, flung accusations and struggled to shove him up against the nearby lockers — after all, Karofsky had no problem doing the same to Finn's friends, his girlfriend, his goddamn _brother._ Besides, he couldn't stand the irony of the man who'd sexually assaulted his brother calling Finn a gay slur. For what, having emotions? He'd take that any day. Balling his hand into a fist, he blindly threw it into the neanderthal's face, feeling something crunch beneath the weight... a horrifying pain shot through his arm, but the howl of pain from Karofsky's lips was well worth it.

Several swings slammed into the side of Finn's face, uprooting a cry from his throat as he fell onto his side, clutching the wound with another wound. His left eye ached and fell shut of its own accord, and he felt it swell instantly under his palm. Through his other eye, he watched as Puck and the other guys swarmed Karofsky, their attacks smudging together through the involuntary tears seeping from his swollen eye and falling into his other. He watched blurrily as Mr. Schue tore them away from one another with unexpected strength.

Rolling in pain, Finn barely registered the sight of Quinn and Santana holding back a hysterical Rachel who was attempting to reach him. Despite himself, he smiled softly at her, and her cries quieted. He couldn't tell when or how the fight ended, only when Rachel finally crouched by his head and ran her fingers through his hair. Schue sat him up, quizzing him about his injuries.

The teacher sighed. "Shit, I think he broke his thumb. I'm going to drive him to the ER. You guys should all go home. Rachel, Mercedes, you're going to have to perform your song tomorrow."

Rachel kissed the top of Finn's head. "I don't care if we ever perform it. Can I come with you guys?"

He concealed his surprise with a look at Finn. "It's up to you, buddy."

"Go h...h-home," Finn choked out through his teeth. His ragged breaths made her wince, and she held him closer. "I'll be f...f-fine. Might take a while. Will s… will s-stay with Kurt."

She sighed and nodded, pressing one last peck to his cheek before helping their teacher haul him up. "Call me when you see a doctor," she pleaded as everyone made their way out to the parking lot. The teacher gave her a reassuring smile.

Mr. Schue opened the passenger door, and Finn slid in, offering his friends a soft, sad smile. That smile stayed on his lips until they pulled out of the parking lot and were far out of sight, at which point he let it slowly slide off until all that was left was a straight line disrupted by a thin, bloody gash.

* * *

"Six weeks," instructed Dr. Anderson as he jotted something down on a piece of paper. "Keep the cast on. Come see me regularly for x-rays so we can make sure the bones are in place. The stitches in your lip should dissolve on their own, but I'll take a look at them when you come in. I've written you a prescription for some pain medication. Take only the instructed amount, no more."

He handed the paper to Carole, who only glanced at him to thank him before returning full-force to her son. Feeling a buzz in his coat pocket, Cooper sighed, pulling it out as he watched the interaction. As he looked down at his pager, the doctor froze. He looked up, eyes wide for only a split second before he controlled them, and turned to Finn. "I'll be back soon. Sit tight," he called out as he grabbed his stethoscope and raced for the door. They barely acknowledged him.

Once he was gone, Carole sat in the chair opposite to Finn, not saying anything. She rested her head in her hands, but Finn could see her back quivering. "Mom," he whispered, head fuzzy from the anesthesia. "Please, don't cry."

"How can I not, sweets?" She looked up, and her olive-green eyes were bloodshot. Still, somehow, Finn thought they were lovely and imagined having eyes like that instead of his father's brown. But even though he thought his eyes were boring, he did know a girl with the most beautiful brown eyes in the entire world...

He sighed, staring down at the blue cast on his arm. "It's just my thumb, mom. I'll be good to go in less than two months. And the football thing, that's not even a big deal. I'll catch up when this thing comes off." Yes, he had been disappointed when Dr. Anderson informed him that he would have to take time off, but he was otherwise occupied anyway. And every time he had to play with _him _... well, he just couldn't focus.

"Honey, just look at your face! It's all banged up. I can't stand to see you like... see you like..." She trailed off, but they both knew what she didn't want to say — she couldn't stand to see him like Kurt. But all he had was an injured thumb, a split lip and some bruises. All he'd had to do was wait in the ER and go through some x-rays. All he'd lost was a few hours. Kurt... Kurt had lost everything.

Finn's watch chimed gently from the table where he'd taken it off for the cast. He glanced down at the face — midnight. He'd lost track of how long he'd been at the hospital, but it must have been a while. Midnight... it had been more than two weeks now since he'd lost his brother. Hadn't he read somewhere...

"I had to do it," he announced absentmindedly. Finn wondered where Karofsky was in that moment, whether or not he was just as damaged, if not worse. "I couldn't let that monster have another second. He doesn't deserve it."

"Finn-"

"No, you know what? This is fucking stupid," he decided, anger seeping quickly and substantially into his voice. Carole watched, concerned, as he shot up from the table and paced around the room. "Why haven't the police done a goddamn thing? They've had all the time in the fucking world!"

"Finn, listen-"

"I don't believe a second of their bullshit! They say that I don't know anything for sure? That all I have as proof is a few slushies and a lot of dumpsters? They say they can't do anything until Kurt wakes up? Well, they need to grow the hell up and realize that that might never fucking happen!"

The room fell silent, and Finn's heavy breathing took up most of the space. His neck relaxed, head falling forward as he tried not to collapse into a mess of tears and blood. When he lifted his gaze... it landed on Burt, stood imperfectly still in the doorway.

He froze. "Burt, I-"

"What's his name?" Burt demanded quietly. His voice was low, like a hidden sword attacking a man's weakest spots. Finn stuttered, mind reeling as Burt approached. "Finn, tell me. The kid who hurt both my sons. Tell me his name."

The reason Finn hesitated at that moment was not that he didn't want to tell Burt, or that he had any doubt that he was right. He didn't want to protect the monster or to keep him from Burt's undeniable rage. No, the reason was that it was difficult for him to say his name even one more time. But he did... because there was no fucking way he was missing that showdown.

He took a deep breath. "His name... his name is Karofsky. David Karofsky."

Before either of them could say or do anything else, a familiar nurse rushed into the room, holding the door open without explanation. Carole shot up, confused. "What's going on, Harry?" The nurse, Harry, seemed to remember himself and hastened to clarify.

"It's Kurt," he whisper-shouted, eyes lighting up with indiscernible emotion. "He's... he's waking up. But-"

Burt was gone before the man could finish his thought. Carole moved to go with him, but Finn caught her arm, somehow functioning as though the news hadn't quite sunk in. "What is it?" he pressed the nurse, holding onto his mother's side. "But what?"

"It's good that Burt is there. Hopefully, it will help the boy and soften the confusion. But I have to warn you, it's not a pretty sight. Not like you see in movies and television."

"Thank you," Finn added, "but I have to go and be there." Carole nodded her agreement, at a loss for words. The nurse complied, gesturing for them to follow him. They did.

Carole went in and sat in a chair beside Burt — well, more hovered over than sat. Finn, however, stayed outside the room, clutching the window with fear as he watched the chosen professionals coax his brother back, Dr. Anderson right at the centre. Through the chaos, none of them noticed the curly-haired man sneak out of the room — except for Finn.

He clearly wasn't a doctor — he wore pants and a grey knit cardigan over a dark red shirt and... was that a bow tie? Finn's eyes narrowed, but he only caught a short glimpse of his face, eyes hidden behind light glasses. Who was he, and why was he in Kurt's hospital room?

Finn forgot all about the man, however, when he heard a crash. He turned back to the window to see Kurt thrashing slowly, as though he imagined himself to be flailing but could really only move with exorbitant effort.

When he leaned in closer, though, the sight that broke his heart was thin tears falling from Kurt's still-closed eyes, pain on his broken face, and the choked sound of him suffocating on oxygen as he breathed for the first time in what seemed like forever.

But even through all this, Finn cried because he finally let himself believe it — it was Kurt. That was Kurt. He was moving, albeit slowly, breathing, albeit ineptly, but he was there. He was doing it.

_Kurt._

* * *

**A/N: My update schedule is fairly irregular, so follow my Instagram account naya_warbler for sneak-peeks and updates on updates, as well as artwork and edits! This story is also on AO3 under the same title under the username NayaWarbler. Stay tuned for more chapters, and I hope you enjoyed. Hearing from readers usually gets me more motivated to write ;)**


	6. Miracle

**Chapter Six: Miracle**

_Leave me alone,_ he wanted to say, to scream, to tattoo on his forehead, to write on a billboard outside the hospital, signed with his name at the bottom. It was his first thought, his only thought. To the doctors prodding at him. To his family clutching his fingers. To everyone, to everything, to himself.

His skin crawled. His body ached. His fingers itched to scratch at the spiders crawling across his arms, but they wouldn't move, no matter how much he willed them to. And the thoughts, the memories, the images flashing behind his eyelids tortured him, trapped him, locked him in a box and forced the key down his throat.

_Leave me alone, please. But also, help me._

He opened his eyes. The world was different. Not all different — just here and there, he would notice something that wasn't there before. Carole's hair was more brown, Burt's forehead had more lines, Finn's eyes were darker, heavier.

He was different, too. Empty. Tired. So tired. Just lifting his hand took everything he had in him, but just yesterday he could do a triple backflip — no, not yesterday, Kurt reminded himself. Days ago. Weeks ago. However long it had been. And when he tried to speak, to scream, nothing came out. Nothing.

The world wasn't so different, but he was. There had been a time when Kurt Hummel was a master of words, a time when they were his only weapon. Now, he was weaponless, defenceless, vulnerable. His back was wide open, and there was a line-up behind him.

They always made him go first.

* * *

The doctors and nurses asked him lots of questions after he woke up. He didn't have answers to most of them, like how much pain he was in or if he could move his fingers; they were simple questions, but somehow he didn't have answers.

Hours later, after the doctors left, the harder questions came. His father sat on the edge of his hospital bed and asked him if he knew what day it was — he didn't answer, but that was answer enough. Burt pointed at the wall where a whiteboard hung, the date written on it in curly, decorative writing. Sure, that was okay. It had been days. How many, Kurt couldn't tell you.

Then, Finn asked him what he remembered from the night it happened. He wasn't surprised, really — Finn never quite knew what to say or when to say it. Kurt just tightened his lips, turned his face toward the wall, and tuned everything out: sounds, sights, feelings. All without closing his eyes.

Carole's question came next, the hardest of all. Did he need anything? He needed lots of things, like the ability to move without excruciating pain, to speak and be freed of the hell he was in. He needed to know what had happened to him, to know what was going to happen. But he settled for a drink of water because he'd been hydrated only by IVs for who knows how long and he'd been breathing from a tube down his throat. Carole left the room with a sad smile on her lips because she'd seen it all before — she was a _nurse _— but she'd clearly never seen it like this.

Kurt closed his eyes — only for a moment. Everyone had been telling him to rest, to sleep, but he'd been asleep for what felt like years and minutes at the same time. What was to say that he wouldn't just close his eyes and be unable to open them again? Despite their heaviness, he pried open his eyelids and focused on a bright spot, the vibrant blue of Finn's cast.

He frowned. Had that been there before? He certainly didn't remember it, but that didn't mean anything. Weakly extending a finger to the boy without lifting his arm from the dusty sheets, he caught his father's eye and raised an eyebrow. Burt sighed, "Finn? Your brother's asking..."

The boy's head shot up, and his fingers stopped fidgeting with the fraying ends of his blanket. "Yeah? What's up, Kurt?" he choked, caught off guard. Even just saying his name to him, not about him, not to his body…

The reply was slow. Kurt struggled with his hand and abandoned it, hoping his pointed gaze would convey the rest. Finn caught it and followed, finding his hand and sighing in realization.

"It happened today. Well, yesterday, I guess." Kurt blinked, and Finn chuckled. "You should see the other guy," he finished, fingers crossed behind his back. No way he was ever letting the other guy near Kurt again.

Kurt managed a pitiful smile. He wanted to offer a fist bump or a pat on the back, something, but that was out of the question. There went that manly bonding moment. Ah well.

Burt rubbed his temple. "I still can't believe you broke your thumb punching a kid's face."

"What do you mean? It's perfectly believable," Finn defended, attempting to cross his arms over his chest and, well, failing miserably. "Faces are hard. There are like, bones and stuff."

"And that's why you put the thumb inside the fist, Finn."

"How was I supposed to know that?" he sputtered, hugging his cast to his chest. "I'm the quarterback, not Mike Tyson." _Was_ the quarterback. He didn't correct himself.

Burt demanded, "Haven't you seen any action movie? Ever?"

"Well, yeah, but in Die Hard they get guns, Burt. Guns. Yippie-ki-yay, Motherfucker!"

The older man rolled his eyes but held his tongue. Just let the kid smile for a minute, he would have argued. "Yeah, well, we don't always get guns in the real world. You need to learn how to defend yourself, or else you'll be a victim for the rest of your life."

The room fell silent as Kurt stiffened in his bed, the action triggering a searing pain down his ribcage. Teeth finding his lips, he bit down hard, and blood broke through the skin — it was because of the pain that his eyes welled up with tears, he said to himself, over and over. Because of the pain, not because of...

"Kurt, I-" Burt stammered, reaching for his son, "I didn't mean... I know it wasn't your fault that-"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kurt spoke, quiet, breathy, broken, for the first time since he'd awoken. "Please," he whispered. "Just…" _Go. _The unspoken plea penetrated the room, punching the mechanic straight in the chest — fist closed, thumb outside.

"_Kurt,_" he whispered. The boy turned his head to face the wall again, tears slipping down his cheeks. It strained his neck and tugged at the stitches along his scalp. He stayed like that until he heard footsteps, slow, resigned, quieting like one of Quinn's breathy decrescendos.

His bed dipped, and a familiar hand, twice the size of his, landed on him. "We're trying," Finn explained, patting his arm gently (albeit slightly awkwardly). "I know it's hard — for everyone — but we're all trying."

"I… know," he croaked, dryness in his throat overwhelming. Coughing, he wrenched a hand up to his throat, fire spitting in his chest. His brother, wincing, watched attentively, hand poised to hit the call button, only lowering when Kurt settled miserably back into his bed.

"Dr. Anderson said not to make you talk too much," Finn amended, helping the boy rearrange his blankets. "Maybe just mouth words. Or write them down… once your muscles get stronger."

_Ok_, Kurt mouthed, tensing his face to hold back angry tears. He wasn't sure which was worse — the tube that had been down his throat when he woke up, or the knot that replaced it now. Turning his gaze to the ceiling, he began counting the tiles, mouthing the numbers. _One, two, three..._

"Thirty-five," Finn announced, plopping back into his chair. At Kurt's prying squint, he elaborated, "The tiles. There are thirty-five... unless you count the big one the fan goes through as two. Then it's thirty-six."

_Wow_, Kurt mouthed, biting the inside of his cheek. It stung— he didn't stop. _How did you..._

"I... had some time. In here. I've counted those tiles a lot, bro." Hunched over, hands holding one of Kurt's, Finn stared meaningfully into his dull glasz eyes. "We need to talk."

Kurt swallowed around the knot in his throat, cringing at the burning in his ears_._

"The nurses held off the police," Finn declared matter-of-factly. "Said you needed rest, that you'd only just woken up. You should've seen their faces... our faces. I hate to say it, bro, but we were starting to think..."

"Finn," Kurt rasped, eyes stinging. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, I said not to talk," he reprimanded with a watery grin. "God, I sound like mom. Kurt, don't... just don't say anything. Especially not _that_."

But what else could he say? Restricted to the word or two he could mouth at a time, deciding between that or the terrible pain that came with trying to speak? Not knowing if the damage was permanent if talking would just make it worse... _Fine_, he answered. _You talk._

"Ok. Yeah, I can do that," decided Finn. "Wanna hear about the assignment Mr. Schue gave us this week?"

_Always_, Kurt mouthed.

"Honestly I thought it would be doom and gloom with... everything lately. But it wasn't — it was memories."

The boy was silent for a moment, watching the IV in his arm. Memories. _About me?_

"Not... exactly," Finn replied. "Schue never said it was about you. But I guess we all kind of assumed — I mean, he sang _Mr. Cellophane_, Kurt."

An uncontrollable smile spread across his lips at the Chicago title. It took him back, as though he could feel the stage lights hot on his skin, thrumming with adrenaline, confidence, knowing he was undeniable. For a moment, he forgot everything. Just a moment.

"I asked Rach to sing with me, but she said no — apparently she's doing a duet with Mercedes. Mercedes! That's either going to change the world or destroy it, I'm telling you."

_When is yours?_ He asked slyly. Maybe a part of him — a big part — did wonder what kinds of memories Finn had of him. They'd long since gotten past the butting-heads stage of their relationship, and Kurt knew they loved each other like actual brothers, but that didn't mean he had forgotten.

Finn averted his eyes for a moment, clearing his throat. "Mine was yesterday."

… _And? _

"I- I sang that Beatles song, you know…" He trailed off, flushing under his brother's intense gaze.

Kurt paused for a moment, running through the possibilities. How many Beatles songs had they sung together? None for an assignment. A few, maybe, as they made their way through alternating playlists at family dinners — not once had a Beatles song shown up on Finn's, though.

Not on Finn's, but… _oh._ Kurt eyed his iPod on the side table. _You mean,_ he mouthed, _that one?_

"Yeah," Finn nodded, biting his lip. It was only then that Kurt realized the extent that his family had been hurting, pained, desperate. It was only then that he began to burn inside out from guilt, like a match touching a slow-burning fire.

He caught his brother's eye, wanting to apologize again but holding his tongue. _It must have been wonderful._

Finn grinned. "Please, it was… splendiferous."

_That's so not a word_.

"It is! I looked it up."

He rolled his eyes. _Did anyone else sing something_?

"Rach and 'Cedes were about to go yesterday when…" Finn stopped, absentmindedly toying with his cast, drawing Kurt's attention to the wound.

Kurt frowned. _When you punched someone?_

"Some assholes deserve a good punch," his brother resolved, tracing the cerulean cast with his good hand. He caught Kurt's eyes, saw the questions in them. He knew if he said his name, he would know for sure — right now, in that instant, he would know if the person who had done this to Kurt was...

_Who?_ Kurt urged, darkness seeping into his features. He had an idea, but… he could see it already, that face crunching under his brother's fist, the delightful crack resounding through the air as he was knocked to the ground. He could see the face, every inch of it, every crevasse, every bit of evil in the eyes and depravity in the mouth, and yet he still wished it wasn't that face under Finn's assault because that would mean that all this time while he'd been here, that face had been out in the world instead of locked away or fighting to survive.

Standing up, Finn looked away again, squeezing his eyes shut, as though that rendered Kurt entirely inarticulate. "It's not my place to say if-"

"Finn," Kurt whispered, fingers twitching to grab his. Finn, pacing blindly, didn't see, and Kurt didn't ask.

"The nurses told us not to stress you out too much or you could get worse, but they also said you might never talk again and you're talking now and you seem like you're sane enough-"

"Finn," he exclaimed. The dark-haired boy's eyes flew open, panicked, but his lips kept moving.

"But the police are going to come eventually even if Dr. Anderson signs that form and then you're going to have to talk about it so maybe this is a good thing to prepare you for-"

"_Karofsky_," Kurt breathed. A beat passed in which the panic on his brother's face melted into dread, solidified into hatred and stayed that way. Shoving the words through his throat with all the force of his body, Kurt continued. "It was- him... yeah? You p-p-pu... hit him?"

Finn collapsed back into his chair. "It doesn't fucking matter if I punched that bastard."

"I... it..." Frustrated, Kurt weakly pushed a pillow off the side of the cot. "L-look at me."

Finn returned his gaze to Kurt guiltily, granting him the freedom to speak. "Sorry, bro."

Shaking his head, Kurt mouthed: _What matters, Finn?_

Jaw clenched. Fist tight. Finn looked like he was back in the second before he swung. "That _he's_ still... that I can't..." He paused to grip the railings of the bed. "What matters is what he did to you. But Kurt, I don't know what that is. Neither do the police. And until we do, we can't do anything — _I_ can't do anything, and I know you've had a hard time of it Kurt but when I found you-"

A hand seized his arm, and his blood ran cold. Kurt's pale, frozen white fingers wrapped around his wrist, warning. Finn didn't move, didn't look, didn't speak... not until the laboured breathing of his brother became too hard to ignore, and he gently took the hand in his and lowered it back to the bed. He didn't let go.

Kurt didn't have to say anything. He knew. And _god damn_ it hurt.

* * *

"He doesn't want to see you guys. I'm sorry." Finn placed a consoling hand on his girlfriend's shoulder, but she shrugged it off sharply.

"What do you mean he doesn't want to see me?" Rachel echoed, fisting the neck of her Christmas sweater. The hurt in her voice dug deep into Finn's chest, and he sighed, shaking his head.

"Not just you, Rach. He's not in the mood for any visitors right now." He tapped his toes inside his shoe anxiously, glancing around the crowded ICU. It was Friday, about a day and a half since Kurt had woken up. It was also far too soon for the entire glee club to visit during lunch rehearsal.

"We understand," Mr. Schue replied, solemn smile struggling to stay on his lips. "It's been a hard time for him."

Santana snorted. "Understatement of the year." Mercedes glared at her, and she puts her hands up defensively. "What? I'm just saying, imagine waking up one day and it's been two weeks, the police want to know who beat the living crap out of you, and you can't even talk. Jesus."

"He can talk," Finn spat. "And he's gonna be fine, ok? He's gonna be fine. So just... stop."

Mr. Schue stepped between them. "Finn, we're going to head back if Kurt doesn't want to see us right now. But, um..." He came closer and patted the boy's shoulder. "You should get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I'll try, Mr. Schue. Thanks." Finn turned to Rachel, who surged, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing tight.

"I don't want to go back, Finn," she whispered in his ear. "I want to stay with you. Please."

"Rach, I-" Cut off by Kurt's door opening, Finn turned to find Carole blocking the view into his brother's room. She beckoned him towards her.

"He changed his mind," she said quietly to her son, eyeing the glee club warily. "He wants to see them."

His eyebrows furrowed. "But he's still... did you say something to him, mom?"

"No!" she exclaimed, running a hand through her hair. "He was fiddling with his iPod and just changed his mind."

"Ok." Just as hesitant, he affirmed, "You sure about this?"

She shook her head. "He's sure."

"Alright," he conceded. "I'll bring them in." Finn turned back to his friends, and Carole placed an advising hand on his arm.

"Not all of them at once, sweets. Just Rachel and Mercedes for now." He nodded in relief and hastened back to his girlfriend's side.

"You and 'Cedes," he whispered in her ear, hand against the small of her back. "He misses you guys."

A tiny smile spread across her lips. "I miss him."

"Go inside, babe," he offered, nudging Rachel towards his mother. The girl stared at him, wide-eyed, as though she barely even believed the boy in question was inside. Finn grinned. "Go."

She slipped through the door, and Finn motioned towards Mercedes. "You too, 'Cedes." She followed, mirroring Rachel's expression, and she, too, disappeared. Finn made his way to their teacher, nodding politely at him.

"He changed his mind?" Schue questioned, watching the kids fondly.

Finn shrugged. "I guess so. Didn't want to overwhelm him, though. Sorry you came all this way."

"Don't be. We're talking about a miracle here, Finn. The least we could do was come visit." Clapping his shoulder, the teacher jutted his chin towards the door. "Go with them and make sure your brother's alright. I'll take the rest of 'em back to school and we'll sing some festive songs."

He snorted. "Maybe we should be rehearsing for sectionals. I mean, they're in less than two weeks and we don't even have a..." Eyes widening, he suddenly remembered. "Mr. Schue, Kurt was supposed to be our soloist."

"Yes, he was," he confirmed. "We're going to have to replace him, I'm afraid, unless-"

Finn shook his head. "The doctors haven't said anything, but Santana was right. He can barely speak, much less sing. And we... we don't know if..."

"He's gonna be fine," Mr. Schue echoed his words. "Give him time. For now, he just needs to focus on getting better. He's a miracle, remember?"

"Right," he agreed. "Miracle. Gotta be honest, it didn't look like a miracle when he woke up. It was... scary."

"I'm sure it was." He didn't say anything else, and somehow that was the most comforting thing he could do.

Finn cleared his throat. "I'm gonna go see how they're doing. Thank you, for everything." They nodded at one another, and Finn waved to the rest, retreating into the room.

Rachel and Mercedes were sat at Kurt's feet on either side, each holding one of his hands, and his iPod rested on his stomach. From the door, Finn watched the device rise and fall gently for a moment, knowing that it was Kurt who was making it happen all on his own. Maybe it was a stupid thing to be proud of, but all things considered, Finn had a right to be stupid proud. He joined them, sitting in his favourite chair by the bed while Carole sat on the petite sofa in the corner, observing.

"And then my mom decided to stay in Ohio for a while so she could get to know me better and so Quinn and Puck could know Beth. I was mad at first, but then she helped me with my audition for West Side Story." Rachel prattled on, but her gaze stayed locked on where her hand surrounded Kurt's. It wasn't hard to tell from the strain in her voice that she was on the verge of tears, but none of them spoke of it.

At the first break in Rachel's monologue, Mercedes chimed in. "Rachel, Kurt doesn't want to hear about your drama. None of us do."

She huffed, crossing one arm across her chest but realizing it looked ridiculous and lowering it. Rolling his eyes, Kurt squeezed her hand and tried to sit up.

"I d-don't mind," he struggled as Finn forced a pillow under his back. A few coughs punctuated his statement, and his cheeks burned red with humiliation. "Honest."

"Kurt," Carole chided subtly, reminding him not to talk. She knew it would make his cheeks burn brighter, but he would thank her in the long run. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them, facing the ceiling — gravity stopped his tears from falling.

He caught Finn's gaze and stared meaningfully, as though he could implant his thoughts into his brother's mind. Their duet, Kurt mouthed, hoping he understood. Finn nodded.

"You guys were gonna sing your duet after mine remember? Before the whole..." he recalled. "How about you do it now? I know it's not in front of the whole club and Mr. Schue isn't here but-"

"Of course," Rachel agreed. She turned to Kurt. "I would ask if you have the instrumental, but that would be an insult."

_Memories_, he mouthed, a grin breaking his face in two. _Of course I have it_. Grabbing his iPod, he slid his thin fingers across the screen a few times before the wholly familiar tune came bounding from the tiny device.

Light radiated from the two girls as they stood, grasping onto each other as they sang. "Something has changed within me, something is not the same..."

True to the name of the assignment, memories rushed through Kurt's mind. The first time they sang _Defying Gravity_ together — when they competed for the solo. Their first sleepover where they sang through the entirety of the soundtrack without stopping, apart from the 'intermission' (read: snack break) where they'd stumbled in their pyjamas into the kitchen. The five-hour car ride to see Wicked live in Chicago, and another five hours back, all spent singing until they'd all lost their voices completely.

"And you won't bring me down, bring me down!" Their voices split through the air, sending shivers down Kurt's spine with the final note — if only they sang duets more often, the world would be a better place. He beamed, clasping his hands together. No one said anything about the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You guys are amazing," Finn said for him, pulling Rachel into his arms. Carole clapped emphatically against her thigh, holding her phone with one hand to capture the performance. Mercedes flipped her hair over her shoulder, laughing, and carefully wrapped an arm around Kurt.

"Hell yeah, we are!" she cheered, pumping her other fist in the air. "We rocked this damn hospital!"

"I'm inclined to agree," a voice interrupted from the doorway, breezy and amused. Clipboard under his arm, Dr. Anderson clapped earnestly for a moment before withdrawing his charts. He smiled conspiringly. "The nurses were thoroughly delighted, even the grumpy ones."

"This nurse was incredibly delighted," Carole teased, clicking her phone off. "Although my state of grumpiness is dependent on when Burt gets back with our coffee. Morning, doc."

He shot her a dazzling smile. "Mrs. Hummel."

Mercedes jabbed Kurt in the arm, feigning most of the action in light of the tube sticking from his inner elbow. "Why Kurt, you didn't mention your doctor was _fine_ _as_ _hell_. I've been picturing that dude who almost gave Rachel that nose job after Finn-"

"Mercedes," hissed the girl in question, pink in the cheeks. She shifted embarrassedly, jostled Kurt's sheets and made a fuss of fixing them, muttering under her breath, "I didn't go through with it..."

Finn rolled his eyes, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. "Dr. A, these are our friends. That's Mercedes and this is my _girlfriend_, Rachel." Alright, perhaps the girlfriend part was a bit strained... but the way the girls were staring at the doctor made Finn's stomach clench. "Girls, Dr. Anderson."

"Nice to meet you, ladies." The man chuckled, catching Finn's gaze meaningfully, and made a subtle show of toying with the band on his ring finger. Embarrassed, the boy hid his face in Rachel's hair.

"You and 'Cedes should head back to school," Finn advised. They nodded and each gave Kurt a sweet kiss to the cheek before leaving with Carole's promise to email them the video of their duet to show to Mr. Schue.

"Glee club, huh?" the doctor conversed politely. The two boys made little attempt to hide their fondness of the unpopular club.

Carole laughed heartily, waving her phone in the air. "Never miss an opportunity to put on a performance, these kids. Not that I'm complaining — never met a more talented bunch in my long life."

"I'm no stranger to the allure of show choir. My younger brother was the star of his in high school," Dr. Anderson replied, making his way to the head of Kurt's bed and glancing briefly at the monitor. Kurt nodded at him in greeting. The sight of the doctor both calmed and worried him — he was the last thing the boy could remember from... before. His steady demeanour, his healing hands. But there was a figure with him, a man who's voice was like a tidal wave of warmth. A man he hadn't seen since then, who he half-believed was a figment of his dying breath.

"Kurt... Kurt?" Carole's hand waved across his face, and he startled.

"Wh-wh-what?" he rasped, curling his toes. He did that sometimes when he wasn't sure if he was awake or asleep. The sensation comforted him, and his heart rate slowed on the monitor.

Carole bit her lip nervously as she addressed Dr. Anderson. "Could that be a bad sign? He wasn't responsive for a few seconds..."

"It's possible," he responded, clicking open his pen and jotting down a note. "But it's best not to jump to conclusions. You've been through a lot, Kurt. It's completely normal to be a bit shaken up."

Kurt settled back into his sheets, grateful that the doctor had thought to address him directly. Grasping onto that bit of dignity, he waited for Dr. Anderson to continue.

Flipping one last time through the clipboard, the man gave him a megawatt smile. "Everything looks great, all things considered. You're a fighter, kid. I'll be back in a couple of hours to check on you, but your nurse should be in and out if you need anything." He stuck his pen into his coat pocket. "As for talking, you should give it a fair chance. If it hurts too much, stop for a while and rest. Healing is a process — your body is doing what it can, but it needs your help."

"Ok," he breathed softly through his teeth, revelling in the brevity of the pain. "I'll tr…y."

As Dr. Anderson bid his farewell, another figure walked through the door — differently shaped, larger, with fonder memory attached. Wanting just to move on, Kurt caught his father's eye and opened his arms carefully, waiting, and their embrace was warm and familiar and maybe a little tearful, not that Kurt needed any more tears today or any other day.

Burt pulled away, picking up the coffee tray he'd discarded on the side table and handing a cup to Carole. "Sorry if it's cold. When I heard some beautiful voices from in here I had to wait and listen outside."

"You just missed the girls," his wife replied, sipping the lukewarm beverage contentedly.

"I caught them as they were leaving. Rachel told me something interesting."

"And t-that was?" Kurt questioned, searching the sheets for his iPod. Finn handed it to him, and he nodded in thanks.

"That you are the most thoughtful and most idiotic son I could ever wish for," Burt replied, taking Kurt's hand. "You threw the competition in sophomore year. For the solo."

"Y-yeah," he whispered, a soft smile on his face. There was no reason to be upset about it now — he'd made the right decision then. No solo was worth his father's pain.

"Why? You deserved it then, and you deserve it now!"

"I g-got it. Mr. Schue _g-g-gave _me… I d-don't need to sing for all th-th… to know I de_serve_ it." Maybe once he would have had to, but now all he wanted was to sing again. For his father, for his friends, for himself. He rubbed his raw throat.

Their moment of silence was interrupted by a knock at the door. Muffled by the barrier, a musical voice called out, "Kurt? It's Rachel, I forgot my bag."

"Come in, dear," Carole replied, eyes skimming the floor for the spotted backpack she'd seen scattered in the doorway of her home too many times to count. Picking it up from the corner of the bedpost, she handed it to Rachel as she walked through the door.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hummel," Rachel beamed, digging through the front pocket. "I was half-way when I realized I'd forgotten it here and I got so scared! If my dads had called me and I hadn't answered, God, they'd be so scared for me! I'd better check if they-" She paused, fingers closing around nothing. "Huh, my phone isn't in here. I must've taken it out..."

Kurt smiled. "You t-took it out for the ph-pho…photo."

"Oh, yes!" She lifted a finger in the air dramatically as though recalling an event that hadn't been less than ten minutes ago. "No hospital visit is complete without a selfie. I think I left it…" Running her hand over the side table, she came up empty, frowning.

"Not there?" Finn asked, throwing an arm over her shoulder.

Shaking her head, she poked his chest gently. "No. Can you call me? I think I took it off silent…."

Finn rolled his eyes as he grabbed his jacket and unzipped the pocket. "Please, you never have it on silent."

"Every call is an important call when you're a star!" she defended, biting her lip anxiously. Kurt took her hand comfortingly, and she relaxed.

It was left unsaid the real reason she was afraid of losing her phone, but the look in her eyes as she clenched Kurt's hand spoke volumes itself. Finn unlocked his phone and announced, "Speed dialling a Miss Rachel Berry."

Loud and blaring, the ring tone filled the hospital room, the bubbly, melodious voice of a pop star. But it was not the voice that stopped Kurt — it was the song. A song that drowned him in memory so strong it was like it was happening at that moment, and once again he couldn't see but he could hear everything so clearly, so wholly.

The bubbly, melodious voice transformed, in his mind, into a honeyed baritone as the song played. _You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream..._

Before, when the life had been seeping from his skin — a man with curly black hair and thin glasses falling off his nose had stood over him, held his head gently, whispered words that barely made sense. The same voice had sung to him centuries later, telling him to push all the bads things away and focus on the harmony of his song… _that _song.

What was his name? Name, name, name…

"Kurt!"

He opened his eyes — when had he closed them? — to several hands reaching out towards him. Carole, Finn, Burt, Rachel. No, none of those were the right name. He blinked, squinting at the overhead lights.

_Hello. I'm…_

Yes, he was so close. On the tip of his tongue, lips forming the letters. He felt the warmth against his skin. It wasn't long ago, maybe a few days. He could remember.

_I'm… I'm…_

Finn could have sworn Kurt's eyes became bluer.

_I'm Blaine._

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, but here's a little Klaine for the holidays :)**

**Songs referenced:**

**Mr. Cellophane from Chicago the Musical**  
**I Want to Hold Your Hand by the Beatles**  
**Defying Gravity from Wicked the Musical**  
**Teenage Dream by Katy Perry**


	7. Midnight is the Devil's Hour

**Please re-read the warnings and notes at the beginning of this story before reading this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Midnight is the Devil's Hour**

"What the hell just happened to him?" Burt grabbed Kurt's arm, squeezing tightly. His eyes were wild with panic, and Carole stood beside him, hand secured over her mouth in shock. Kurt blinked at the commotion.

"Huh?" he croaked, throat sore from hours of speaking.

His brother slammed his palm against the call button again. "Dude, are you alright? You completely spaced out!"

"I'm… f-f-fine." Kurt stopped. He needed to know, now. "But d-do you…"

"Do I what, man?"

_Hazel eyes, midnight hair, honey voice. _"Blaine," he answered, clear as day. "Do you… kn-kn-kn-know him?"

The room stilled. "What?" Finn said.

"Blaine," he repeated. Finn's lip twitched as he processed the unexpected question.

"No, Kurt, I don't… What the hell!" Solidly, he rested his fist against the wall. "Kurt, you can't just… get lost like that."

"M'sorry," the boy replied, staring distractedly at his legs that were covered by the thick blanket. "But…" _That voice, the light in the dark that pulled him upwards…_

Rachel, who had propped the door open when Finn hit the call button, filled the nurse in when he arrived. "He stopped responding and had this faraway look in his eyes."

"How long was he non-responsive?" asked the nurse as he checked Kurt's pupils.

"About…" She glanced at Finn who held up two fingers. "… two minutes."

Carole chimed in, "I'm worried he might be concussed."

"Any headaches?"

"Not that I know of, but this has happened before. The day he woke up, he was in and out for hours."

The nurse, knowingly, said, "Frankly, I'm not surprised. It's perfectly understandable that he's a bit rattled, after everything that's happened. I'll let Dr. Anderson know of the episode and we'll go from there, but at the moment, I don't think it's anything of concern."

Kurt gnawed at his lip. "I'm _f-f-fine_."

"I know you are, kid," Burt said, patting his arm. His eyes were anchored on Kurt and yet only half there, the other half in some faraway place where parents go to worry about their kids.

"Um, this might be a weird question but, I think," Rachel faltered, "he mentioned a name."

"Blaine," Kurt supplied determinedly.

"Right, Blaine. Do you… know anyone?"

"Me?" The nurse paused for a moment, contemplating, and then shook his head. "Sorry, I don't. No one who works in this hospital goes by that name."

"Oh. Well, thanks anyway," Rachel conceded. Finishing his notes in Kurt's chart, the nurse nodded to them before hurrying back into the ER.

Kurt produced an exasperated sound from his throat. "He's here, I kn-kn-know it. In the hospit-t-tal."

"Why do you say that, sweetie?" Carole asked, sitting on the bed and brushing his hair back. "Who is this Blaine?"

"H-He… He's… a d-doctor. C-Curly black hair, g-g-glasses."

"Did he take care of you when you woke up?"

Kurt shook his head, disheartened. "I h-haven't seen h-him since… since bef-fore…"

Clutching her sweater at the chest, Rachel came to his bedside. "Before the accident?"

"It wasn't an accident," Finn muttered, turning away to face the window. He stopped, gaze landing on the vase on the windowsill, where twelve dandelion stems rested, stripped of the white clouds around them. There had been a man, the night Kurt had woken… a man with dark, coiled hair and thin glasses that tipped off his nose who, despite his rush to escape the room with a waking boy, stopped for just a moment to run a finger along the dusty windowsill.

"H-He saved me… sang…" There was something about the way that Kurt's eyes shifted that struck fear into Finn's heart — it was almost… reverent. Neither of them could afford to be reverent, or trusting, or open again. Especially not to a man who wouldn't even show his face.

"No, Kurt. You're remembering wrong. Dr. Anderson was the one who saved you that night, not this _Blaine_. He also said you might have experienced some hallucinations, and that's what this is. Ok?"

"But F-Finn-"

"Kurt. You're getting better every day, and soon you'll see that this was just a dream." He clasped his good hand against his brother's shoulder and squeezed. "Don't worry, man. It's all good."

"I-" Kurt stared at the white wall in front of him, a mask of concentration so thick on his face that it was hard to distinguish his features. "Ok…"

Rachel tugged at her boyfriend's sleeve and pulled him towards her. She hissed, "Finn, are you sure about-"

"Yes. He's not real. When me, mom, and Burt got here that night, there was only Dr. Anderson. If there had been anyone else, I'd have known. I'm sure of it." They locked eyes, and if Rachel saw the uncertainty in his, then she kept it to herself.

"Fine," she conceded, backing away towards Carole and Burt. She grabbed her bag and her phone. "I should head out, get back to class. I'm already late. Um, sorry, everyone."

"Bye," Finn said as she left, watching the door for a moment before turning back to Kurt. The boy's features were schooled into an ambiguous expression, lids falling down over his eyes as though they carried the weight of his entire body. "You should get some rest, bro. You look exhausted."

The words fell on deaf ears — by the time he'd said them, Kurt was out cold. Burt sighed, following Carole's lead and lifting up one end of the covers over his son's sleeping form, tucking it under his chin. "The kid's had a long day," he said.

"It's hardly been 36 hours since he woke up, and I doubt he's slept much since," Carole mused, sitting in the armchair. "Not that I blame him. But his speech has already improved dramatically and, other than the episodes, he doesn't seem to have any lasting symptoms."

"That's not true," Finn interrupted, cheeks flushing with temper. "He hardly eats, and he's always thirsty. He can't walk properly or say what he wants without trying really hard. His skin's paler than before and those bruises still haven't gone away even though it's been almost two weeks. He's not normal."

"Finn," Carole soothed, pulling him down into her lap and running a hand along his hair like she would when he was a child. "I know it hurts to see your brother like this, but even though bruises heal slowly, they still heal."

"Yeah," he whispered, swallowing a thick lump in his throat. Why does that always happen when you're trying not to cry? It doesn't make it any easier. "Maybe the physical ones do, mom. But you didn't see what I saw."

His step-father crouched in front of the two, knees cracking like dynamite before it explodes. "They told me when we first got here that my son had been assaulted," Burt said, that same murderous expression finding its way back, darkening the lines of his aged face. "They told me that someone had hurt him. All I could think of was that I never really knew how dark the world was that I'd brought a kid into, but I'd still promised to keep all that darkness away from him. I failed. Miserably."

"Burt, you-"

"You said the kid's name was Karofsky. Last night, before Kurt woke up. How did you know?"

Finn sniffled softly. "He was always awful to Kurt. I tried to fight off as much as I could after you and mom got married, and I really thought he'd stopped. Or, at least, taken up just making fun of him behind his back, which still sucks but what can you do? He's gay, and this is Ohio, not New York."

"So he's complained about many a time," Burt added thoughtfully.

Finn hesitated. "I wasn't sure about it being Karofsky until I… until I talked to Kurt about it."

"What?" Carole exclaimed, sitting up in the armchair. "We talked about this. No one was supposed to mention what happened to him until Dr. Anderson cleared it. That's why we held off the police!"

"He couldn't form a full sentence, mom," Finn said matter-of-factly. "The police wouldn't have been able to use anything he said."

Burt stilled. "How about now? He's up and talking… well, not up. But he can communicate, and the sooner the police get his statement, the sooner we can lock up the son of a bitch."

"If it's even him," Carole reminded pointedly.

"It's him," Finn reinforced. "The moment I started talking about it, he grabbed my arm and… the look on his face, it was… terror. Pain. Just, like the worst thing you could ever feel, that was on his face."

Burt stood abruptly, slamming his fist into the wall with a harrowing crunch. "I'm going to see the detective. When Kurt wakes up, tell him and Dr. Anderson that the police will be here tomorrow morning after breakfast."

* * *

"There you go, some more painkillers. That headache of yours should be gone in twenty minutes, tops. Don't you worry, kiddo," the nurse reassured; the amount of writing he was doing in Kurt's chart had the opposite effect. Hopefully, the pain meds they gave him were drowsy because his mind was spinning in all directions and he'd already slept half the afternoon away.

Carole caught the nurse in the doorway. "He's not a complainer," she whispered, watching the kid close his eyes, not because he was tired but because there was nothing else he could do. "It was bad. He woke up screaming and grabbing his head. We had to push him down or he would have torn his stitches, or worse."

He glanced down at the first page of the clipboard. "When he first came in, Kurt had a blunt force trauma to the head. Now that he's awake, we're watching him closely. Headaches aren't too alarming, and we want to wait for more intensive tests until he's a bit stronger."

"I understand," she said. Of course she did. "Thank you, Harry."

"Not a problem, Carole. Best wishes." The nurse clicked the pen closed before setting the chart down and telling the family goodnight. Carole tapped her finger impatiently against the doorframe, watching the hall. Burt still wasn't back, stuck at the station with the detective. Finn was gone, too, having left a few hours before to talk to Rachel — he'd texted staying he was going to sleep at home tonight, but Carole had her suspicions. But the entire day after Rachel left, his phone had been chiming non-stop, and he'd been ignoring it for Kurt's sake, so she let it slide just this once.

A sharp tapping noise pulled her back into the hospital room; Kurt's overgrown fingernails rapped against the wooden table, and his lips were tight with frustration. "S-s-sorry," he croaked, running his long fingers down his throat, "I th-think… too m-m-m-uch…"

"It's alright," Carole cooed, grabbing the glass of water and bringing it to his lips. He drank slowly, painfully, and coughed to clear his throat. It burned.

_Thank you, _he mouthed, ignoring his step-mother's poorly hidden flinch.

"Of course, darling. What is it?"

_I'm just… tired_, he lied. _Can you go see if dad needs anything at the station?_ It was glaringly obvious that he wanted her to leave, but she tried not to take offence — the boy hadn't been alone since…

Carole sighed and grabbed her purse. "Sure, hon. But I'll be letting Harry know so he can keep an eye on you while we're gone." In a subdued excitement, Kurt nodded and clenched his fists in anticipation — an action which was met with resentment from his weakened muscles — as she left him alone in the darkened hospital room.

For a moment, unsure what to do with the solitude, Kurt just allowed himself to take it all in. The walls were white in the sunlight, but now, after sunset, they seemed almost beige in the yellow glow of the lamp — it was warmer now, despite the cold of nightfall, and felt more like the vague memory he had of his bedroom. One of the nurses had brought in a whiteboard yesterday and drawn him a calendar after he'd had a hard time remembering what day it was — he admired the snowflakes curled around _25 - Christmas._

But there was another day coming up that Kurt had been looking forward to more than Christmas. Sixteen days from today, in Finn's messy sideways letters:

_Sec-_

_tion-_

_als!_

He traced the lines of his swollen throat. Two days ago, he hadn't been able to breathe on his own — the moment he'd woken up, thrashing, grasping at the thick tube down his windpipe but maybe not actually moving at all, weak, broken, still in one piece but that piece was so frayed at the edges that it didn't fit in with the puzzle anymore.

Before, he hadn't gone a day without singing since the moment he learned to speak.

He hummed softly to himself. It burned, like small needles pricking his trachea. He pushed on, letting out a small note, not unlike the way he would match the piano man's chord before starting a song, or the way he and Rachel would bounce harmonies off of each other in the echoey auditorium when no one else was around.

The note caught in his throat and died there. And maybe a part of him died there, too.

When the girls had come to visit at lunch, they'd tiptoed around what had happened to him. They'd told him stories from his absence, reminisced on memories from before, but they hadn't spoken about… The way they looked at him, like he was just broken in body, something told him that they didn't know the entirety of the story, just the surface, just the blood and bruises and not the broken everything else.

_The police are coming in the morning, Kurt_. _You're going to have to tell them everything you remember. _Carole's gentle warning rang in his mind, turning it to mush. _Tell them everything… you remember…_

He remembered everything. He remembered how he'd hidden in the shower stall until six o'clock, how he'd gone home and hadn't been able to help Carole with dinner, how he'd gone to school the next day after two hours of sleep and crashed in Glee club, only to be assigned his first-ever competition solo. He remembered how excited he'd been to tell his father, how dejected he'd been when he'd realized that Finn had gone off with Rachel and left him at school, how… frightened he'd been as he tucked his boots behind a fake plant and tiptoed through the halls.

He remembered the paralyzing pain, the sinister voices, the hands — hard at first, slamming into him, forcing a metal pipe into his gut, and then the hands were sweaty and hot, palms open, exploring…

A razor-sharp clanging outside his room pulled him back, and Kurt realized that his body was trembling, shaking, sending bullets of pain through his ribs and back. He stilled himself forcibly, sucking in lungfuls of air at a time, and his eyes flew open. From his window, he saw a dark figure watching him, a figure that must have noticed he was awake because it hid without delay.

He blinked, shaking his head. It must have been hallucinations, like Finn said. There was no one watching over him, protecting him, just like there was no Blaine. The song he heard must have been on the radio, and the words just a figment of his imagination.

The night was quiet for a moment then, the first time in weeks. Kurt glanced fleetingly at the clock on his bedside — it was almost midnight, his least favourite time. He clicked the lamp off and was plunged into darkness. Carefully pulling the covers under his chin, he settled back and decided to try to sleep. If he was lucky, he would sleep through the devil's hour entirely.

The door opened softly. He smiled to himself, knowing it was Harry trying to check up on him without waking him up — he figured he'd had his fill of being alone for a while. It was too hard to keep the memories away when he was alone. A click meant the door was shut, and Kurt sank back into his bed, comforted.

"You look even worse than I imagined," said a sour voice, punctuated by footsteps growing louder. "My boy really did a number on you."

Kurt's blood turned to ice, melted back into water and then evaporated into the thin air. Wait… he forced himself to relax… it wasn't real, it couldn't be. He was starting to really hate these hallucinations.

"It was surprisingly easy to get into your room, you know. There are much worse people who could give you a visit than me." The man circled around to the head of his bed, sitting on the nightstand. He narrowed in, menacing. "Look, I can't stay for too long in case someone finds me here and uses it against my boy. So I'm going to make this perfectly clear: they should have no reason to suspect him at all. Am I understood, Lady?"

Just an illusion, just an illusion… The phantom glared down at him, eyes illuminated by the shred of light from the hallway window. His foot came up to rest on Kurt's stomach, and he pushed down against the stitches.

If Kurt had been able to, he would have screamed. Visions don't cause pain like the pain he just felt. And he didn't know what was worse — the agony or the gleaming, demonic eyes of Azimio. Trembling like a freshly-struck cymbal, he stuttered, "Wh-wh-wh-wh-what-t-t-t-"

The hateful eyes gleamed even brighter as a coat of unshed tears lined them. "You put Dave in a hell of a spot, Lady. So what if we maybe went a little far? It's not like you didn't deserve it, and — _fuck_ — you really screwed us all."

"I-I-I… d-d-d-d-did…"

"Dave told me what happened. _All_ of it. And you know he's my boy so I'll stand by him, but it's fucking disgusting, that's what it is. You fags really do like to spread it around, don't you?" The corner of his mouth turned up, twitching. "There's no way in hell I'm letting anyone else find out about this, you hear? You breathe a word to the cops or anyone else and we'll come after that fairy you call a brother. He's out of commission with that cast, ain't he? Shouldn't be too hard between all of us to put him in a matching bed."

"N-N-N-No… p-p-p-p-p_lease_…"

"Not to mention the 'rents, they've been pissin' me off with that sunshine for years, and that auto shop with the faggy name, every time I pass it on my way to school…"

Kurt all-but-shouted, "F-F-F-Fine… I w-w-won't-t… s-say…"

"Good," Azimio concluded, clapping his shoulder forcefully, "then I'll be on my way. Don't make me have to come back here and sew your lips together, Hummel. I know how much you like having them around a nice, thick-"

Kurt blocked out the rest, tears blurring his vision and filling his mouth as he sobbed quietly. The football player left, a tilted smirk playing on his lips, knowing he would never have to come back.

* * *

Finn slammed the door shut, rattling the frame. "How _could_ he? I _fucking know_ he was lying! _Dammit_!"

"Honey, breathe-"

Burt's face, beet red, seemed minutes from bursting. "Don't tell him to breathe! I want to know…"

"Burt, Finn-"

Finn exploded, "No, mom! I told you, you didn't see his face…" Carole took his fist in her hand, unfolding it. Four deep crescent-shaped marks scarred his palm, and tears streamed down his cheeks. "Why would he…"

The detective, a young man with spiky black hair and electric blue eyes, shook his head. "I'm afraid that, without Kurt's word, we don't have much to go off of other than this kid bullying him in school."

"I found him in the locker room! What about forensics? There can't be _no_ evidence!"

He hesitated. "There were some tests done when Kurt first arrived…"

"But?" Burt pressed.

"But they're still being processed in the crime lab."

"What do you mean, _still_? It's been _two fucking weeks_!" Finn shrieked.

"Finn Christopher Hudson!" Carole reprimanded, pulling him back by his shirt. "Detective Gilbert is doing his best to help Kurt, and yelling at him will solve nothing."

"Right," he conceded despondently, "sorry."

The man waved it off. "It's fine. DNA testing can take anywhere from two weeks to a month or even longer, especially in cases like these, and with that rogue truck incident a few weeks ago, the lab's been booked up. Lima, Ohio isn't exactly known for its high crime rate, you know, so we never prepared for something like that."

"So you're saying," Burt interjected, "when you get those tests back, you might have enough to get this… _Karofsky_?"

"I'm saying," he replied cautiously, "that we'll likely have more to go off of. And possibly evidence that could convict a suspect, but anything found at the crime scene or even on the kid could just be from ealier that day, since it's a locker room and you said Kurt was bullied a lot. There's really only one kind of sample that could-"

"I'm gonna assume that vague bull crap is to cover your own ass," Burt responded. Detective Gilbert raised his eyebrows, amused but not confirming, and Burt's lips tilted up. "I can respect that, kid."

White coat floating up, Dr. Anderson stalked down the hallway in long strides and stopped in front of them. "Mr. and Mrs. Hummel! I heard there was a commotion going on in front of my favourite patient's room. Care to fill me in?"

Burt nodded. "Well, Dr. Anderson, we were just speaking with the detective here-"

The two in question shook hands, and Dr. Anderson said, "Nice to see you again, Elliott."

Carole, intrigued at the familiarity, asked, "Do you two know each other? Outside of hospital business, I mean."

Detective Gilbert, Elliott, grinned. "I'm an old friend of his brother's — we were in a band together back in college. It had been a while since Cooper and I had seen one another, back when I was first assigned Kurt's case."

"Yes, I think the last time was…" The doctor trailed off, nose twitching for a second before he composed himself. No one caught the movement but Finn, who watched him, curious.

Det. Gilbert bit his lip. "Since the wedding, I believe."

"Oh, how lovely!" Carole gushed. "Are you married, Detective?"

"No, it was my wedding," answered Dr. Anderson, lifting his hand to show the band that Finn had seen the day before. "Unfortunately, my wife passed away six months ago."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," she said. The doctor acknowledged this, and a moment of silence passed before he coughed and continued with the conversation.

"So, this commotion I heard about…"

The family visibly tensed, and Burt elaborated, "Detective Gilbert spoke with Kurt today about the assault, who told him that he didn't remember who the culprit was."

Dr. Anderson, taken aback, said, "I thought he knew? And told Finn?"

"That's what _I _thought," Finn muttered, stewing in his discontent. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he snarled, taking it out and shutting it off angrily, grumbling under his breath, "_Damn her_."

"Do you think he's lying, Finn? Or that he really doesn't remember?" the doctor asked.

"He's lying, I'm sure of it. One hundred percent. I just don't know why."

"Huh," he contemplated, squinting his eyes in concentration. He turned to Burt and Carole. "Would you allow me to speak with him for a moment? I might be able to help."

Carole looked to Burt, who quickly nodded. "If you think it will help, I'm willing to try anything. My kid isn't leaving this building until that sicko is behind bars."

With those words, Dr. Anderson pushed the door open, met with a blank face as it swung shut behind him. He took a moment to assess Kurt's progress since the night he'd been brought in; his black eyes were practically gone and the cuts and bruises along his nose and cheeks were faded to pink, but his lip was still swollen and the large gash on his head that he'd stitched up still looked bad.

Having been the person who saved his life (well, one of the ones), he knew better than anyone that the worst of it wasn't on the surface: it was inside. He'd come in with several broken ribs, one of which punctured a lung, as well as a few resulting injuries to his organs, not to mention his severe head trauma — quite frankly, the doctor had had doubts himself about the likelihood of his survival.

But, two weeks later, he was here, alive, and awake, despite the various machines helping him along. If he wasn't a doctor, the sheer number of tubes and needles he was presented with upon entering the patient's room may have scared him far away. Just the amount of pain the kid must still be in…

"Hey there, Kurt," he began. The boy didn't move, only swallowed loudly in response. The doctor picked up his chart and pretended to read it. "Not in the mood to talk, eh? I can imagine, since the detective must've asked you a bunch of questions. Plus your throat is still a bit swollen, isn't it?"

He nodded but didn't speak.

Dr. Anderson smiled encouragingly. "I understand why you didn't say anything to him, Kurt." The boy stared, suspicious, and the doctor continued solemnly. "Last summer, my wife was killed in a break-in. I was at work even though it was midnight because it was the last month of my fellowship in trauma surgery. I was here almost, well, always. But my wife wasn't alone at home — my daughter was with her."

Kurt's lip trembled as he wondered what had happened to the girl, like when you watch a movie about the past and you know the ending is tragic but you still hope it's not, like maybe that'll fix everything. Dr. Anderson's eyes hardened, as though he was forgetting why he was telling the story. "Lily, my daughter, wasn't injured too badly, just a few cuts and bruises, but I was here when they brought her in on that stretcher — just a precaution, they told me, because she's so young. Six years old."

_Why are you telling me this? _Kurt mouthed, hiding his shaking fingers under the covers. The doctor snapped back into reality, trying to remember.

"She saw him, the man who… killed her mother, but for the first few weeks after it happened, she wouldn't say anything. Not just about him, but at all. She didn't utter a word for seventeen days. But eventually she did, and they caught the bast- guy, and now he's rotting away in prison for life and I'm not scared when my kid goes off to kindergarten."

Kurt steeled himself, realizing the purpose of the story, and responded, _I told the detective already that I don't know who it was that did this to me. _Kurt wouldn't tell them who hurt him, ever. Not after Azimio's threats, however empty they may have been — but they didn't sound empty, not even in the nightmarish memory he had of the encounter after less than an hour of sleep.

Setting down the clipboard, Dr. Anderson watched him knowingly but didn't comment further. "Alright, Kurt. I have to go see some patients now, but I want you to try to speak some more today, so we can exercise that voice box of yours."

"…Ok," he said, fighting the urge to scratch his puffy throat as the doctor left him alone in the hospital room. There was just a minute between when he left and when the others came back in, but to Kurt, it felt like an eternity.

In that minute, in the daytime, the white walls and the room they made were lit only by fluorescent lights that made something in Kurt's stomach overturn like a ship caught in a thunderstorm, and, yanking his body over the side of the bed, he emptied its contents onto the wooden floor.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, and let me know your thoughts in the reviews!**

**Anyone in the mood for a Blaine chapter? I know I am**

**:_ )**

**Love,**  
**Naya**

**PS: Happy New Year everyone!**


	8. I'm Here, But Why?

**Chapter Eight: I'm Here, But Why?**

"And the kids are so busy preparing for sectionals that they haven't handed in their papers! I understand it's tough balancing school and show choir, but December break is less than two weeks away, and these papers were due on Wednesday…"

Blaine sighed, clicking his pen rhythmically, open, closed. "Wes, we never handed in papers when our competitions were so close, remember? They'll do it, just give them a little time."

"I can't treat them any differently than I would one of the football guys on game week," Wes protested. "It's wholly immoral. Just watch Sophocles write a play about me."

The med student raised an eyebrow. "Sophocles has been dead for two thousand years. I think you're safe."

"But the _principle _of the matter-" Blaine tuned out the rest, tracing over the headline for his page of notes with his ballpoint from the dollar store. The notebook was almost two inches thick with coloured tabs sticking from every other page, and the crick in the student's back reminded him of just how heavy it was — a metaphor, Wes would say, for the importance of what he was learning.

It was one week from his Shelf exams for the rotation he'd been on for almost a month, which was why he was spending his Sunday night at home with his roommate eating cold noodles. God, how Blaine hated cold noodles.

"Earth to Blanderson, hello?" Wes poked him sharply in the ribs, and he flinched away, shaking his head and cursing.

"Fuck you, bro."

"Jeez Blaine, what crawled up your ass and died there?"

"Nothing, I just…" He glanced fleetingly at the miniature clock in the kitchenette before shooting up from the sofa and gathering his things in a rush. "Shit... I have to head to the hospital."

Wes frowned. "For what? It's almost midnight, B. Even if Cooper's still there, he's either asleep or working. Besides, you have rounds in the morning..."

"I just have some things to do."

"Nice and vague, as usual," his roommate muttered as Blaine slung his bag on and headed for the coat hanger. It was one of the coldest nights of winter, and his mother had just mailed him the most beautiful scarf — a stunning, radiant blue that he almost wanted to drape across his pillow so he could wake up to it in the morning.

He tightened the scarf around his neck, twitching from annoyance. "Fine. If you're so desperate to know what I'm doing at all times of the day… A friend of mine is letting me into the morgue to try some procedures on cadavers. Care to join me?"

Wes greened. "I… think I'll pass. Have fun… I guess."

"I _will_." Slamming the door behind him, Blaine rubbed his eyes as he made his way out of the apartment and to the bus stop, weary from nights of lying awake in his bed with sweat pouring down his back and sticking it to his nightshirt. He wasn't sweating now, though; the night truly was bone-chilling, his breath swirling in front of him before breaking off into the darkness. He pulled the scarf over his mouth and rubbed his bare fingers together.

Snow lit by the golden glow of a streetlamp, the road was still and eerie, bare of cars or buses or bikes. Blaine wasn't surprised — it was nearing midnight, and everyone was either fast asleep or somewhere far away from home, but not on the street. No, only indecisive people were on the street at midnight, people like him.

He climbed aboard the deserted bus, fluorescent lights jolting him awake like a splash of cold water, and let the turbulence calm his spiky nerves. Blaine hadn't meant to be so terse with his roommate, and Wes had a valid reason to wonder where he was going — the last five nights he'd been out at the strangest of hours, and almost always at the hospital. Not that he could help it. Staying home wasn't an option anymore.

The first night had been a coincidence. Blaine had just wanted to visit his brother, and he'd happened to be working late that Wednesday. And, if he'd had to pass through the ICU, it was fate that brought him past Kurt's room and chance that he had decided to sing to the boy.

It was altogether something else that had made the boy wake up, something Blaine imagined he would never understand. But it happened, right in front of his eyes, and... like a coward, he'd run away.

The second and third nights, he told himself, were to make sure that Kurt was okay. The same inexplicable obsession — no, fixation — that had compelled him to give Kurt those flowers every day he was asleep. A chance to find closure. And maybe the second night really had been for those reasons, but the third... the third was when Blaine knew that as long as he was able to, he'd come back every night to watch over this boy.

Because on the third night, Blaine had watched in horror as a teenage boy in a letterman jacket pressed his boot into Kurt's injured abdomen.

When the boy had come in, he'd mistaken him for Finn, Kurt's older brother who he'd seen the night of the accident, only having caught sight of the jacket — red and white with a black _M _printed on the breast, the McKinley Titans insignia. By the time Blaine realized what was happening, the boy had already let go of Kurt and disappeared down the hall. Hurrying after him, Blaine had blindly chased the figure to the hospital entrance to no avail — he was gone.

Blood boiled in his veins as the bus reached the closest stop to the hospital. The only passenger, he turned to the bus driver and told him, "This is my stop. Have a good night."

The beauty of the hospital was that you never really could tell what time it was once you were inside. People got hurt in the daytime and the nighttime, and people were there to save them, always. It lifted some of the tiredness from his eyelids, and he brightened as he passed the overnight receptionist, who gave him a curious but not unfriendly side-eye as he waved to her for the fifth time in just as many nights.

"A bit late for school business, isn't it?" she commented as he showed her his student ID again. It was well past visiting hours, but there were perks to being associated with the hospital. "Here to shadow another resident? Or work on a lab?"

Blaine flashed her _the _dazzling smile. "Here to see my brother, actually. You might know him? Dr. Cooper Anderson?"

Her eyes animated. "Oh, I know him. How lovely! I didn't know he had a brother..."

"Not a lot of people do," he replied cheekily, cocking his head, "but they will soon, hopefully, when I graduate."

"Well, I should let you get back to Dr. Anderson... _ Blaine_," she teased, sliding him back his card. "I expect we'll have time to chat tomorrow, as well."

He grinned sheepishly. "What can I say? You can take the man out of the hospital, but you can't take the hospital out of the man."

"I'd say you can't do either, by the looks of it," an amused voice interjected. Cooper slung an arm around his brother's shoulder, exaggerating the height difference. "Hey, little bro. What are you doing here?"

Blaine shrugged his arm off. "Speak of the devil... I'm here to see you, actually. Can we talk in your office?"

The doctor's brows creased in concern. "Sure, squirt. Let's go. Night, Cathy." They bade the receptionist farewell and headed quietly in the direction of Cooper's office, settling inside as an air of importance filled the tiny room. Cooper crossed his long legs, leaning back in his desk chair. "I've been meaning to catch up with you, but it's been a busy week."

"That's actually what I wanted to talk about." Blaine shifted awkwardly on the couch, picking at his nails. "How's Kurt?"

Surprised, Cooper replied, "He's getting better. Why do you ask? I didn't think you even remembered him."

Fingers dug into his palms, but his face stayed level. "Of course I remember. It was my first real surgery. I heard he woke up a few days ago, and I haven't been able to ask, so here I am."

Cooper watched him carefully. "Yeah, about five days ago. But you've been here every night since, Blaine."

The fourth night he'd spent outside of Kurt's room, hidden away from view, keeping watch. He knew his parents were there, and Finn, but the wretched feeling in his stomach wouldn't leave until he was close enough...

"You know how busy med school is and everything," Blaine wrote off. "Always something to do here."

"Right, and finals are next week."

"Exactly."

"So, I'll ask again, what are you doing here?"

Blaine paused. "I already told you..."

"Don't lie to me, squirt," Cooper scolded, not unkindly but firm, reminding Blaine that his brother was and always would be a father. "I've known you since before you were born. I know you better than our parents know you."

"I just..." He kicked at the wooden flooring, curling his toes in his shoes, feeling like a child. "I'm scared. That he won't make it."

His brother didn't have to ask who _he _was. "He's out of the woods now, Blaine. I can't promise it'll stay that way, but so far it looks good for him. He was progressing well, really well with his speech and everything until..."

"Until yesterday?"

Cooper's brows creased like an owl. "How did you know that?"

"I- I..." _ want to tell you_, he held back, _but I can't until I talk to Kurt... _"Educated guess. He hasn't been awake that long."

The doctor blinked his disbelief. "I shouldn't be talking about Kurt with you."

His heart quickened, pulse racing in his palms as he wiped them haphazardly on his pants. "W-why not, Coop?"

A moment passed. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Well, that's not-" Blaine sputtered, "I was there when he was brought in! I don't think that applies here!"

"Maybe you're right," Coop ceded, "but I get a feeling that you're too close to this."

"How the hell could I be too close to this? I don't know the kid! I've barely met him while he's conscious! I'm just concerned because he was my first patient. That's all. Promise."

He nodded, sighing. "Of course. I'm sorry." _For what exactly? For accusing me of what? _He spoke to the police yesterday morning — well, Elliott."

"Hold on, Elliott is on this case?" Blaine cried, shooting up from the couch. "_ My _Elliott?"

Cooper smirked at him, amused. "Since when is he _your _ Elliott? Is there something you want to tell me, squirt?"

Pinking in the cheeks, Blaine huffed, "You know that's not what I meant. Elliott from the band."

"Elliott you hated for months because he was — what was it? — trying to 'steal your one true love'?"

"I was in college," he muttered. "Everyone thinks their college boyfriend is their one true love."

"Especially since you were seventeen which made you fresh bait-"

"Shut _up_, Cooper! Just because I'm smarter than you and graduated early..." Blaine shook his head, grinning. "You're an old man, now, aren't you?"

"I'm thirty-three, and that is a ripe young age, thank you very much. You're just a child."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, grandpa." Blaine smiled a toothy, bright smile that felt good on his lips. Why hadn't he smiled like that in so long? The name _Kurt _floated back into his mind, and his legs drummed anxiously against the floor again. "So, about Elliot...?"

"Oh, right," the mirroring smile slipped off of his brother's face. "Elliott tried to get Kurt to say who it was that... hurt him. And Finn, Kurt's brother, was so sure that he would say something, that he knew..."

"But he didn't tell," Blaine finished, eyes widening with realization. The night after he'd seen...

"No, he didn't. And I don't know for certain, but I believe Finn." The brothers were silent for a moment, as though there was something they could do to find the truth, one brother impossibly closer than the other already.

_I need to talk to you, Kurt_.

Blaine cleared his throat. "So I should get back to studying, now that I know that Kurt is... okay. Thanks for telling me." He stood, atmosphere shifting to something different but not lighter, and patted his brother's shoulder. "Try to do shorter shifts. You look like you need your own bed."

"Being home's not the same anymore," the doctor replied wistfully.

Blaine tightened his grip, fingers dipping into the creases of his brother's shirt. "I miss them too, Coop. But Lily's safer with mom until you get back on your feet."

"I know, I know. It's just hard." He took in a deep breath, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Alright, squirt. Go home to Wesley, and tell him to send me those pictures I asked for."

Blaine glared without venom. "Should I ask?" His brother only replied with a wicked grin, to which he sighed and shook his head. "Goodnight, Cooper."

"Night."

Shutting the door behind him, Blaine went straight through the ICU, setting himself up in front of a certain blue-eyed stranger's hospital room, digging his coffee thermos out of his bag to keep himself awake.

* * *

"You're going to fail the Shelf, and all your work will have been for nothing," Marley chirped in her bouncy voice as she fell into step with Blaine, whose bloodshot eyes were poorly concealed behind cheap sunglasses.

"That's real positive, thanks," he muttered, rubbing his temples where a burning pain was forming. "It's too fucking early for this..."

Sebastian snorted from Blaine's other side. "Don't get me wrong, I'm liking this new you, but who are you and what have you done with sweet and kind Marley?"

"She goes into hiding when one of her friends is in trouble," she answered in a sing-song yet serious voice. "Blaine Devon Anderson, why do you look like absolute shit and why are you wearing those douchebag glasses indoors?"

"It's five am, everyone looks like shit." He groaned loudly, wishing he had more bean juice to drown himself in. "Why are we even here?"

"Blainers, we've been here every morning at five am for the last seven months. That's what _rotations _are. That's when _pre-rounds _start. Now, explain to me why you appear to have not slept in a week and how you got here before I did."

He blinked his long, crusted eyelashes under his shades. "I never left."

Sebastian whistled low under his breath and raised a fist. "Brought those clothes with you, then? Get it, man."

Blaine glared at him senselessly. "That makes no sense. Who would I even have hooked up with? It's a fucking hospital."

"You know, that one nurse with the strong hands. He could give me a sponge bath any day-"

Marley slapped a hand over his mouth. "Stop, just... stop." He licked her palm, and she pulled back, disgusted. "Men, I swear..."

"Can we please get back to why I'm going to flunk out of med school?" Blaine said.

"Oh, right. That." Blaine glared at her as if to say _yes, that. _She held her hands up in surrender. "I'm just saying, two weeks ago you were at the top of the class. Now, you're barely yourself when you're here. I don't know what happened to you the night of the accident, but I think you need to get over it."

"I just..." he trailed off, staring ahead in the direction of the ICU as they made their way to pre-rounds. He was so close, but it was morning, and everything was different in the morning, he didn't have an excuse to... "It was hard to see all that carnage. To know that someone wanted to hurt all those people. To know that, if the person responsible had shown up on a stretcher, we would have had to treat them just the same, despite..."

A warm hand rested on his shoulder, and Marley smiled up at him sadly. Surprisingly enough, Sebastian mirrored. The three of them walked in silence the rest of the way, feeling the full weight of the paths they had chosen finally settling on their shoulders, and still carrying them without complaint.

He needed to go back to who he used to be. The guy who would take care of _everyone_. The guy who would give everything to give more.

But there was just so much to do.

* * *

Frozen egg salad sandwich hanging from his mouth, Blaine fixed his clothes and straightened his glasses, having exchanged his shades for a more practical pair that, well, actually helped him see. Miraculously none of the contents fell out of the sandwich as it was suspended between his teeth — not that he was surprised, considering in the winter the refrigerated shelves the hospital cafeteria kept them in were cold enough to raise penguins. He finished his food in three bites, wincing at the texture of the eggs, and continued toward the patient's room that he was supposed to be in.

As he rounded the corner, loud voices stopped him in his tracks. One of them was familiar, the other brand new, both tart and angry. Red-faced and shouting, Finn stood outside his brother's room with a sharp-looking Latina in a cheerleading outfit, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

"I swear, Santana, you couldn't keep a damn secret if your life depended on it!"

She bit back, pretty features morphed into the edge of a sword. "Secrets are for people who have things to hide. I think they're stupid."

His voice got louder until it almost echoed through the halls and into every crevasse. "Like hell you do! Have you not been in the closet for seventeen years? Everyone knows you're in love with Brittany, and that she doesn't love you back. That must hurt, not being able to admit to everyone how you really feel."

The girl, Santana, recoiled as though she'd been punched in the gut — but only for a moment. She pushed herself closer, right up to Finn's face, and hissed, "I told Karofsky that Kurt's awake because I wanted to see his face when he heard it. I know he did this. I know he hurt my friend. So I wanted to hurt him. Get that, Tubs? But now I want to hurt you, and you should be scared because we both know there are things that you want me to keep secret."

"Karofsky didn't just _hurt _my brother, Santana," Finn muttered before guilt flashed across his face and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

She froze in place, finger in the air. "W-what?"

"He..."

Her nose twitched as her face seized up. "No, no... that's not funny, Finn. Really not funny."

Tears streamed down only one side of Finn's face, the other half hidden under his palm. "I didn't mean to... looks like I'm the one who can't keep a secret."

"But, Karofsky doesn't- _shit_, how could I have missed that?" She turned, kicking the wall hard enough to surely bruise her foot, but she showed no signs of _physical _pain. "Damn it!"

"I'm scared that he's gonna come after Kurt," Finn admitted, sliding down the wall. "Now that he knows he survived. He has more to lose."

Santana whimpered, sliding down beside him, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," he muttered, slinging an arm around her shoulder. "I care about you, you know. You were my first, and that means something to me. And I know it's hard here, to come out of the closet, to put yourself out there like Kurt did because well, look where it got him, being himself in Lima. But you deal with your anxiety surrounding this stuff by attacking other people, and someday that's not going to be enough and you might start attacking yourself."

"I don't think that's going to happen." She grinned humourlessly, wiping her eyes. "I'd miss myself too much."

"Tana, be serious."

She stopped. "You're right."

"About?"

"Me, loving Britt. And... and about her not loving me."

"I..." he paused to push her hair out of her eyes. "I was just angry. I can't speak for her, and neither can you."

"She said she had feelings for me, back when she was with Artie last year," she continued. "But then they broke up, and she hasn't even..."

"She's in that room over there," Finn said, pointing at his brother's. "Go talk to her."

The girl nodded and stood, breaking Blaine out of his trance. He ducked behind the corner as she passed him and cracked open Kurt's door, but not before Finn saw him.

"Hey, you," called out the boy, an urgency in his voice that Blaine hadn't heard since the day Kurt woke up and he came barreling into the room as he'd made his quick exit. But why was he calling for Blaine? Was it because he'd heard the seemingly very private conversation?

The man stopped and turned back to his patient's brother. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Are you a doctor? You seem really young."

Blaine relaxed, a gentle smile making its way onto his face. Maybe he could get to know Finn. "I'm a med student. Third-year."

The boy's brows pinched into his nose. "Then why were you in my brother's room in the middle of the night? Last week, the day he woke up. I saw you."

His heartbeat thumped in his ear as silence fell over the pair. "I... I was checking on him. I assisted on his surgery the night they brought him in."

"They asked a med student to check on him? Not a nurse or a doctor?"

"Double-checking, for myself. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay."

The kid's eyes narrowed into slits as he surveyed him. He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself, before asking, "What's... what's your name?"

"Anderson," the student replied, holding out a hand. Inexplicably, Finn seemed to relax, reaching to take it. "Blaine Anderson. Pleasure to meet you."

Finn dropped his hand and blinked, tensing again. "Blaine... Anderson. Curly black hair, glasses."

"Uh, yes? Do you describe people's appearances a lot when you first meet?" he joked, attempted to lighten the confusingly heavy air between them.

The boy didn't laugh; he stared wordlessly at Blaine for a moment, as though trying to determine if he was lying — about what, his own name? — before deciding that he wasn't and putting up some kind of guard. "Stay away from my brother."

Blaine withdrew. Of all the things he'd expected to come out of Finn's mouth, that wasn't even an option. The boy he'd observed to be kind-hearted if not a bit temperamental at times directed a glare onto him, for reasons unbeknownst to Blaine. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, _Blaine_," he snarled, the name a weapon on his tongue. "Stay away from Kurt."

"Look, Finn, I-"

"How do you know my name?" he grumbled.

"I told you, your brother was my patient. It's my job to know about his family."

"No, my brother isn't _your _patient, he's Dr. Ander-" He froze, scanning Blaine up and down. "Dr. Anderson's. Cooper Anderson. Are you...?"

"His brother, yes. I was with him when they called a code- when they told us about the accident, so I was in the ER when Kurt came in, and I was able to help him."

Finn's expression softened. "Look, dude, I appreciate you saving my brother and all. But, for some reason, he remembers you as this perfect guy who really cares about him instead of the guy whose job it was to save him. He's putting all his hope on you because he's in a dark place. That's not what he needs right now. He doesn't need to get hurt again. Ok? Just, please, let him believe you don't exist."

"I..." How could he? How could he explain to Finn that, for some unexplainable reason, he did care for Kurt? How could he _not _promise Finn something he believed was for the good of his brother? "Ok. Alright, Finn, I won't try to talk to him."

They finally shook hands, as though sealing the deal. Finn gave him a curt nod — the last one, Blaine told himself — before heading back into the room. As for Blaine... he was late for his patient's physical.

"I'll stay away, Kurt," he muttered to himself as he walked. "But I'll watch over you from afar, because I think I'm the only one who knows the trouble you're in."

_If only I could see you awake, just to know for sure..._

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for that ending folks! Don't forget to tune back in for chapter nine to see what happens next :)**

**If you'd like updates and sneak peeks, plus additional fandom content, follow my Instagram NayaWarbler! **

**Happy March everyone!**


	9. Setbacks & Saviours

**Chapter Nine: Setbacks & Saviours**

Dark circles weighed down his red, puffy face. It hurt to open his eyes, and it hurt to close them — he hovered somewhere in between, wincing every time the dryness forced his eyelids to shut, the flutter of his eyelashes tickling his cheek. He wanted to sleep, so badly. But just to sleep.

It was morning, and he'd been lying awake, in the same place since 8 pm the night before.

He waited impatiently, gnawing at his lip until teeth broke through the fragile skin. Ha. They couldn't stop him from doing that like they stopped him from clawing at his arms. The hair rising on his arm alerted him of the nurse's presence by his side, the same newfound instinct that made him cringe away whenever someone got close.

"I'll give him something for that."

Finally.

"There's something different about him," whispered the voice of his stepmother. It was quiet and held-together, but the kind of held-together between a poster that's too heavy and flimsy tape on a wall. A ticking time bomb. "Even just the last two days he's seemed worse than before."

"Since that detective came." His father's voice held no such facade. Kurt was glad he couldn't see his face; he thought it might give him nightmares.

"He just looks… sad," added his step-brother, quite uselessly if anyone were to ask Kurt. "And he's been acting weird. He's normal sometimes, then really mean. Or just… not even there."

The nurse, hopefully preparing Kurt's sleeping medications, spoke. "He can rest for today. It shouldn't impact his sleep schedule if we give him another dose tonight — there's no such thing as too much sleep right now."

"I think he's not been able to sleep for days," Carole admitted.

"It seems he's suffering from insomnia. It's not uncommon in… such cases. Especially since he seemed to have nightmares the first few nights."

"And the behaviour?"

"Could be sleep deprivation or a mood disorder…"

"I'm just concerned… he said he's… abdominal pain lately but… his ribs and lung…"

They spoke over his head — he was the animal in the cage who could hear, see, but would always be stuck inside himself. Kurt squinted his eyes as the sliver of vision began to swirl, bringing with it the contents of his head. He was being mashed like bananas about to be fed to a baby. His body tensed.

Sounds cut in and out. Why were they talking like that? Was it a new language they all learned so they could talk about him behind his back? He thought that maybe, even if he learned their language, they would never hear him. "And how… his injuries… new symp… sphyshwedh….."

Huh. Weird.

Oh.

_There it is._

* * *

"And I brought your magazines — remember, stop reading if your vision gets blurry — and your pillow from home that you love so much," Burt rambled, producing each item from a large black duffel. Kurt watched him, unblinking. It was as though they didn't even see each other.

"Kurt, sweetie," Carole interjected, laying a hand on his blanket. He flinched violently, and she wrenched her arm back, but the damage had been inflicted.

His glasz eyes glazed over. Sure, they were still beautiful, but in the way that a porcelain doll is beautiful — vulnerable, empty, uncaring. Just looking in them made it hard to remember what they once were.

Burt unpacked the rest of his son's things into his hospital room in silence.

It was over an hour later that _Kurt_ returned. Finn had just dialled Rachel's number to see when the Glee girls would be arriving at the hospital when they heard the faint hum of her ringtone in the hall. As quiet as it was, it seems to rouse Kurt from his reverie.

When the girls entered the room, they were met with a tiny, confused voice. "H-Hey," he began as Santana, sporting a dazzling and slightly out-of-character grin, plopped herself in the chair by the bed that Burt had evacuated for her. "You're ear-ly."

The grin faltered slightly. "No, we're not. It's half-past five. We came right after Glee let out."

Kurt blinked. "It's… b-but I just w-woke?"

"The nurse gave you a sleeping drug," Finn shrugged. "You've been out all day." He didn't mention that Kurt had been awake for the last hour, saying nothing and staring at the same spot on the wall. It seemed unnecessary.

Santana whistled, low. "Can I have what he's having?"

"Very funny, Satan," Rachel growled defensively, but Kurt's small, pained chuckle settled her. She sighed as Finn wrapped an arm around her waist. "I'm glad you got some rest, Kurt."

He nodded. As though unaware of the tension, which she probably was, Brittany came to rest on the bed beside him. "Hey, unicorn," she greeted cheerily, booping his nose. His face scrunched up involuntary, only stinging a little as it stretched the stitches along his lip.

"Hey, Brit." A movement behind her startled him, where Santana was shifting her weight, seemingly unconsciously, and leaning towards them. Brittany's eyes followed his, lighting up as they landed on the girl, and she reached behind herself to grab her hand.

He watched Santana's face for a moment as the two girls locked fingers — Kurt seemed to be doing a lot of watching these days. "Tana. You look…" _Carefree, delighted, alive… _"g-good."

Her dusky eyes twinkled with mirth as she pulled Brittany onto her lap by their joined hands. "I always look good, Hummel."

"Yeah," Brittany chimed in, beaming as she held a hand to Santana's face.

"Alright, alright, get a room, you two," Tina teased, the playful lilt to her voice betraying how happy she was for the two.

"There's no use," Quinn added, amused. "It seems they're on their honeymoon phase."

Taking a deep breath, Santana held a hand up, putting a stop to the chatter. "I… I'm really glad you guys support this," she began. "But… if it… please, just keep it in this room. Britt and I have talked about it, and we both agree it's for the best."

"Santana," Finn interrupted, "I thought we talked about this. It's scary, but you have to do it eventually."

"Actually, Finn, I don't." She coaxed her girlfriend off her lap and made her way towards him. "You're trying to force me out of the closet. And I get that it's because you care about me, but the truth is that you don't understand. It's not just being able to be yourself at school or with your family. Sometimes it means losing family. Sometimes it means getting attacked. And maybe someday I'll be ready to take that chance, but right now I'm just not."

Kurt understood. A lifetime of trying to understand himself, years of wondering if his family would love him the same, five days a week where someone or another was trying to tear down his spirit, just because they didn't understand him. He still knew. He would always know. Santana's words went in through one ear and stuck to his brain like rats to a glue trap.

Tugging at her hand, he demanded her gaze. She gave it, letting one dry sob rake her body. "It's ok," he murmured, the pain gone from his voice for one powerful moment. Then it returned, and he stopped speaking again.

"I wish this hadn't happened to you," she muttered, low enough that only the two could hear. "If I could wish anything, it would be that."

They knew it should feel like a lie, but it didn't. He caught his father's eye over her shoulder and pushed all the love in his heart onto his face so Burt could see it. Despite everything, Kurt was still the luckiest. Even if it felt like he wasn't even around to be lucky anymore.

"Enough of that," Rachel scolded, wiping tears from her eyes and lifting a large bag. "It's time for girls night plus Kurt. Finn, Mr. Hummel… get out."

Two of three Hudmel boys shook their heads in tandem, giving each other the patented what-can-you-do look before hurrying out. Placing a kiss to Kurt's forehead, Carole gave them a watery smirk. "As nice as it is to be invited, I'll give you kids some space."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson-Hummel," Mercedes piped in. "Where are you heading to?"

"Cafeteria," the mother replied, nose scrunching. "Whoever budgets for this hospital needs to put more money into that place. I swear, those egg salad sandwiches are frozen solid. And hey, I told you to call me Carole."

As soon as the door shut behind Kurt's step-mother, the girls settled into the room. Santana and Brittany resumed their place on the chair, Rachel and Mercedes claimed the couch, and Quinn and Tina took a seat on either side of Kurt on the bed.

"I hate to be the one to break this to you, Kurt, but you look like shit," Santana admitted, taking in the details of his sunken-in face.

"Did you get _any_ sleep last night, sweetie?" Quinn asked, brushing the hair out of his face.

He shook his head. "My st-stomach hurt t-too much. 'Ts fine now."

"Hey," Tina soothed, holding his hand. "Your speech is getting much better, you know?"

Folding his lips in, he shrugged. The girls waited for him to speak, but it never came.

Mercedes swallowed her sigh and grabbed Rachel's bag. "Anyone up for a manicure?"

"Ooh, yes!" Rachel exclaimed. "I brought cucumbers for Kurt's eyes. I hope they're still cold…"

"How does your skin still look fucking perfect?" mused Santana, mock scowl dropping in horror as his features screwed up.

"My d-dad," he whispered, voice trembling as he brought his teeth down hard on his lips. "He d-did my… rout-t-tine every night. E-even w-w-while…"

"Oh, Kurt," Tina breathed, clasping a hand over her mouth. Silence fell over the girls as no one moved to cut the tension.

"C-can we j-j-just…" Breath jagged, he closed his eyes, pushing it all away, not letting any of it to the surface. "R-Rach? How's th-the play?"

"Um, it's… it's fine. Turns out Mike's a decent actor. I'll have to work with him _a lot_ on the vocals, but the dancing just about makes up for it. Besides, no one will be focusing on _him_ when we sing together…" Her rambling continued on, maybe a little half-heartedly, delving into the details of before-school rehearsals that she convinced them to have to accommodate the two leads also being in Glee, as well as the director.

As Mercedes and Rachel got into another Maria-off about who would have been the best and Santana joined in about how she was going to steal the show as Anita, Kurt felt Quinn's eyes on him. He turned to see her holding two shades of nail polish up to one of her hands, one pink and one taupe.

"Which do you think?" she whispered conspiratorially, as though it was the worst thing they could do not to listen to the girls grumbling about inconsequential things.

"Taupe." Elegant, classy, accentuating her hazel eyes… yes, he was quite sure about it. But… "Why?"

Having already begun to apply the colour to her nails, Quinn paused and searched his face. "What do you mean, Kurt?"

It took him a moment to realize what he wanted to say — it had just slipped out. The most honest words come without thought, they say. "Why t-trust me?"

_It's just a nail colour_, someone else might have said. Someone who didn't know him, someone who had breezed through life. But anyone who looked at the girl for long enough could tell that she was a volcano ready to erupt — just thinking back to her pink-haired days made Kurt's heart hurt, and not just because of the one-colour wardrobe. She was a mother without her child, and she was in pain. The same pain he was in.

She gave it much thought before she responded but spoke just as honestly as if she'd taken no time. "I almost slept with Puck again," she revealed. "I… I told him it was pointless trying to get Beth back. That we… should make another one."

"Quinn," he breathed, head spinning with new information. He couldn't understand. "Do you… r-regret…?"

"Giving her up?" This time she didn't take time to think — not in front of him, at least. "Not all the time. Maybe at night, when I'm all alone. But not when I'm at school, or with you guys. I don't know _why_ I asked him that…"

"B-Because it w-was night? You w-were alone?"

"I guess." She finished up one hand and switched to the other seamlessly. Something about Quinn Fabray being able to use both hands to paint her nails just made sense. "You know what he confessed to me after that? He slept with her. Shelby. Made me promise not to tell anyone, and yet here I am, telling you."

_I can barely speak. It's not like I'll tell anyone,_ he thought bitterly. Still, Quinn was trusting him with something. "Why?"

"We've all done bad things. All of our friends, us. Some more than others." She did a quick head-tip towards Rachel, and Kurt nodded, remembering the crack house incident. "But I can't remember a time you've ever tried to hurt anyone. I can only remember you _being_ hurt. And I just can't understand how someone could be hurt so much and not want to destroy everything around them."

_Sometimes I do_, he wanted to say. _Other times, I just want to destroy myself._

"W-What good would it d-do?" he said instead, guilt gnawing at his stomach. A sharp pain jabbed at it, and he exhaled, curling up tighter into himself. _Honesty_…

A grin spread across her face, and she tapped his chin. "That's right."

"What are you guys conspiring about over there, all whispery?" Rachel interrupted, pointing a hairbrush at them accusingly. The blonde beside him shook her head, giving him 'the look' that was reserved for Rachel's antics.

"Kurt was just helping me pick a colour," Quinn replied, blowing on her wet nails before displaying them, garnering the appropriate 'ooh' and 'ah'.

"They'll go with our sectionals outfits, too," Tina added absent-mindedly. "If they last until Saturday."

The boy chewed on his lip as the room fell silent around him. Face screwing up in horror, Tina spewed out apologies. "Oh, Kurt, I totally forgot…"

He blinked. "What?"

"Sectionals…" She paused, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "Kurt?"

"Oh, t-that," he dismissed. "It's f-fine." The girls frowned in tandem — all the things that had been missing from Kurt all day became apparent. The twitch of his lips whenever someone sang, as though he was holding himself back from joining in. The crinkle in his nose whenever someone mentioned performing for an audience. The longing gaze, the clenching hands, the wistful sigh whenever one of the girls gushed about being in love.

The little things were gone, and yet they could feel their absence the most.

Shocking everyone, Rachel snapped at him. "Stop pretending like you're not sad."

"Rach," Santana warned, Finn's confession loud in her ears. _Karofsky didn't just hurt my brother._

Rachel brushed her off, scowling at Kurt. "I know it sucks that he beat you up, Kurt. I know it sucks that you feel unsafe. I know it sucks that you can't sing at sectionals anymore. But you can't block it all out until it swallows you whole."

"Rachel, stop talking," Santana pressed, grabbing the girl's arm. "Seriously."

"Your injuries will heal. You'll get to sing again. And when you do, you can sing your solo. Maybe at nationals, if we get lucky. But come on, Kurt, wallowing in this self-pity isn't going to help you-"

"Jesus, Rachel, you're exactly like Finn. Both of you mean well but you don't know what the hell you're talking about. Yet you still talk." Santana grabbed her bag, blinking back her angry tears. She wanted to stay for Kurt, but she needed to leave before she spilled his secret. "I need some air."

As the door ricocheted off her palm and slammed shut, echoing through the empty, noiseless air, Rachel stuttered, "I… I didn't mean… Kurt?"

His lips were folded tightly together, white, teeth nibbling at them from inside his mouth. The skin had peeled away, blood dribbling into his mouth and coating it. It was like he'd been turned inside out. Pain seared through his shoulder, his abdomen, and he folded in on himself like a peacock's feathers.

"Oh no, he's crying…" Mercedes's soothing voice rang in his ear like a gong, a warning that his time was up and he had to move on. He didn't know what he was moving on to.

"No, it's something else," Quinn argued. "Look, he's grabbing his stomach. I think he's in pain." Finding the call button, she pressed it softly despite the urgency in her movements, as though the only things she could care for were Kurt and that stupid plastic button. When she returned to his side, the boy grabbed her hand and kept it in his grasp, tight, waiting, asking with his eyes…

_Can you see me_?

She nodded, but it was only half true.

* * *

Unclenching her fists, Santana leaned against the vending machine as it spat out her candy. She picked it up and unwrapped it, pressing the chocolate against her lips. Cold, sweet, solid under her fingers. She closed her eyes.

"Are you sexing that chocolate bar? I thought you were a lesbian."

Choking on the bar, she coughed violently and doubled over. "Fuck you," she retorted, flipping him off on the way up.

Finn smirked, shrugging. "Come on, it was funny."

"No one under the age of eighty says 'sexing,' blubber boy. I don't think it's even a real word."

He rolled his eyes, grinning. "Why are you out here? The others finally realized you're a bitch and kicked you out?"

"More like everyone remembered that your girlfriend is a bitch. You two are perfect together." She huffed, kicking the vending machine. "I hope Kurt's okay. She was really laying into him."

"Wait, what?" Finn started. "Do I need to go in there?"

"I think the girls have it handled. They can be fierce when Rachel needs a talking to."

"But Kurt's… situation. They don't know. They can't understand…"

"They've got it, Finn. Trust me."

His body remained tense, as though he could break off into a sprint at a moment's notice. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a bill and slid it into the machine, buying himself a soda. "How is he?" He clicked open the can and took a swig.

"Not great." She winced, as though just the thought pained her, and wondered just when she had grown so attached to the boy she'd once tormented behind his back. The boy they'd _all_ once tormented. "I don't think anyone really knows how to help him. There's something he needs, and we just can't… see it."

"He's always been alone," Finn said aloud without meaning to. The rest came out the same way. "I had Quinn, then Rachel. Even you, in a way." He chuckled. "You've had everyone, but mostly Brittany. Quinn had me and Puck, Tina had Mike and Artie. Mercedes had Sam before he left."

"Jeez, we're an incestuous group," Santana remarked, amused.

"Uh, yeah…"

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't know what that means, do you?"

He pouted. "_Anyway_, my point is that Kurt's always kind of been on the outside of all of that."

Santana swallowed her laughter. "Are you suggesting that we find your brother a fuck buddy?"

"What- No, I…" he sputtered, spilling soda on his shirt. He folded up a corner of the shirt to dab at the spot but dropped it quickly when he realized his stomach was showing, reddening cheeks growing darker with each sharp laugh from Santana's chest.

"Revenge," she said. He glared at her through the blush.

"First of all, ew," he declared. "That's my _brother_. Second of all, that is definitely _not _what I was saying."

Her smile settled into something more serious. "I know. But you're right."

"He's always done this thing where he puts all of his heart into someone. He feels a lot, you know. Like with… _me_." Taking a moment to school his features, Finn shook his head. "I went about that whole situation wrong. But I've grown now, and I can see that I hurt him, you know? And I feel really bad about it. Maybe if I hadn't acted so stupid it wouldn't have taken us this long to become friends. Brothers."

Seeing Finn Hudson so wise and remorseful, Santana couldn't help but be stunned for a moment. "You've really changed in the last few years."

"Last few weeks, the most," he confessed. That's what life-changing nightmares do to you. That day he'd found Kurt, bleeding, unconscious, violated… he'd changed forever.

"We all have, I think."

"Him the most. He's different, and all I want is _Kurt_ back. The one who calls me stupid and makes me wear shirts without holes in them." His forehead creased. "Something happened yesterday after you went back inside to talk to Britt."

The small tug of her lips at the mention of her girlfriend disappeared when she registered the tone of his voice. A secret, deep fear tingled in her chest. "What?"

"I met someone." Breathing deeply, he squeezed his eyes shut. "I met Blaine."

The name sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. "Blaine…" Her lips parted in an 'oh.' The Blaine that Rachel had told them about. The one that Finn insisted wasn't real. "Wait… you _met _him? Finn-"

"I didn't know he was an actual person," he argued. "I swear, I didn't. I had an idea because I saw him leaving Kurt's room the day he woke up, but I didn't think it was a big deal… but then I saw him yesterday and I… I told him to leave Kurt alone."

"_Seriously_-"

"Santana. Listen." She quieted begrudgingly, and he continued. "I thought… maybe that Kurt was putting all of himself into this guy. That he was making him into some hero. But… what Kurt needs a hero to be himself again? What if… what if we find Blaine and ask him to get close to Kurt?"

"Jesus Christ, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she exploded, storming off towards the cafeteria when he caught her arm. If she wanted to, she could have pulled away, but if he had a better idea… she would do anything to bring Kurt back.

"I told you, I met him. He was a nice enough guy. Seemed to want to help people. I'm telling you, I think he'd go for it. And… he's Dr. Anderson's brother."

She chewed on her lip. "It's not appropriate for him to go befriending patients, then, is it? Besides, we live in Lima. He's probably a homophobic ass."

"Maybe. But we'll never know until we ask."

They waited for a moment, mulling the idea over, trying to decide if it would work. All Santana could think of was Rachel explaining to them how Kurt's eyes had lit up when he'd said the man's name, how he'd whispered about a song, how he'd broken when Finn had shut it down.

Hesitantly, she caught Finn's eyes again and nodded. "Ok."

The heavy sound of footsteps racing through the hall broke them out of their conversation. Turning in sync, they saw Carole and Burt running towards them, accompanied by Harry, Kurt's nurse.

"What's going on?" Finn shouted down the hall. Carole's wide-eyed panic spoke for itself, and the two teenagers waited with bated breath for the adults to reach them.

"It's Kurt," Harry conveyed. "It seems he's had a bit of a setback."

* * *

"I just don't understand how this could have happened," Dr. Anderson huffed. "The trauma was more than three weeks ago! And as far as I know, he didn't come in with a ruptured spleen…"

Harry shook his head. "No, he didn't. No history of spleen disease either."

The lines of the doctor's forehead were glaring. He rubbed his temple, setting down the chart. "As soon as he's prepped, let me know. I'm going to go get Blaine."

"Of course." The nurse hesitated. "Wait, Dr. Anderson. Who's Blaine?"

"My brother. He assisted on the first surgery, so I figured he could observe for this one." Dr. Anderson clapped his shoulder. "Thanks, Harry. See you in the OR."

Having listened to the conversation, Finn was placated. It seemed Blaine had been telling the truth. The last of the girls to leave, Santana nudged him towards the exiting doctor, and he took the hint, following him into the hall.

"Dr. Anderson!" he called out, waving the man down. As he caught up, he began rambling, "So I overheard your conversation with Harry and I was just wondering if I could come along with you to talk to your brother because I met him yesterday…"

"Oh, he's in his third year of med school so he's here all the time," Dr. Anderson replied. "Why do you want to see him?"

"Well I figured Kurt's my brother so it'd be nice to meet whoever's going to be helping out," Finn bluffed — not entirely, he did think it would be nice to see Blaine again before asking him to bring Kurt back from wherever he was. "If he agrees to help, of course."

Dr. Anderson nodded. "Trust me, he'll agree. Any third year would kill to observe a laparotomy."

"That sounds scary," Finn confessed, the knot in his throat thickening. He'd been trying not to think about the fact that Kurt was hurt again, maybe hurt worse, needing more surgery…

"Hey, Finn," Dr. Anderson rested a warm hand on his shoulder, much like he'd done with the nurse. It was strange to see someone do something to someone else, and then to feel it. Difficult to explain, as well. He thought that Dr. Anderson would definitely be able to explain it. "He's in good hands. I've done dozens of these."

The boy nodded. "Yeah, I know. It's just hard to see him go through this again. And as bad as it was to be the one to find him last time, it might have been worse _not_ being there."

The doctor gave his shoulder one last squeeze before they continued quickly to his office. Knocking on the door once, Dr. Anderson pried it open. "Blaine."

"Heya, Coop," the curly-haired man replied without looking up from his pathology textbook, tracing his finger across the page. "This question's been stumping me. If a 74-year-old woman with emphysema presents with…" He trailed off as he looked up, met with curious, hesitant brown eyes. "Oh."

Finn nodded at him. "Blaine. Nice to see you again."

"Nice to… see you, Finn," Blaine replied, thick eyebrows scrunching together. "Cooper? What's going on?"

"You assisted on Kurt's last surgery," the doctor said. "So I'm allowing you to observe this one. He has a ruptured spleen, so we're planning on a laparotomy."

The breath caught in Blaine's throat. "A ruptured spleen? What caused it?"

"That part we haven't figured out yet," Dr. Anderson mused. "The OR is being prepped as we speak, B. We need to hurry."

"I, uh…" His face grew paler each word. "I don't think I can."

"Of course you can, squirt. You just have to stand there and watch."

Blaine shook his head. "No, I mean… I don't want to."

It seemed Dr. Anderson didn't know how to reply to that, because he just stood and watched his brother with a dumbfounded expression. "I'm sorry, what?"

As the man shrugged, Finn spoke. "My brother would want you there, I think." Both Andersons, breaking out of their staring match, turned to him. "He seemed to remember you, I mean. Said your name a few times."

Dr. Anderson hardened. "Blaine," he began in a warning tone.

"It's nothing," his brother said. "He probably remembered you saying my name."

The silence that followed was tense, concealing. Finn shuffled his feet, not sure what to do, when it was broken by the staccato beeps of Dr. Anderson's pager, who took it out and panned his eyes over the screen. "I have to go," he said, clipping the device back into place, and shot Blaine a meaningful stare that shouted _are you coming_?

He shook his head, and Dr. Anderson left the room by himself. Reopening his textbook, Blaine did his best to ignore the large boy standing at the door. He'd made it a quarter of the way through the next question before a voice interrupted him.

"I was wrong," Finn said. "I'm sorry. It was shitty of me to tell you to stay away from Kurt. I mean, you were, like, sort of his doctor. It makes sense for you to want to know what's going on."

"Oh, uh… thank you." The soft thump of the hardcover closing rang through the room. Finn winced, and Blaine sighed. "Can I just… what did you mean when you said he was putting all of his hope on me? He doesn't even know me."

"Can I sit?" he asked, doing so when given permission. His long legs bent awkwardly under the small sofa. "Kurt's had a hard life. I haven't been around for a lot of it, at least as his brother, but I know it's been harder for him than anyone I know."

"Why?" It wasn't a mean-spirited or prying question, but rather one born out of genuine curiosity. To Finn, this was both a good and bad sign.

"I… I think that's something he'd rather say himself," Finn replied. "But my point is that he's been alone. Not completely, because he still has Burt, but there are a lot of things I'd never talk to my mom about… I mean, we're teenagers." The serious expression on his face melted for a moment as he shivered, before returning. "I'm just saying, he's not had anyone to talk to. And lately, he's been sad in a way that I've never seen before, in anyone."

"I understand. Really," Blaine empathized. "I got bullied in high school, too."

"Seriously, dude?" Finn exclaimed. "But you're like… cool."

He let out a small chuckle. "Thanks, I guess. But I guess coolness doesn't make up for being gay, at least in the eyes of narrow-minded kids."

"Yeah… wait, you're gay?" Finn shot up from his seat.

Stone set into Blaine's face, sliding right over his amicable expression like a garage door slamming shut. "Is that a problem?"

"No, just-" Thoughts raced through Finn's mind — would it be best for Kurt to let him get close to Blaine? Would he put too much of himself in again and get hurt? "I think I have to go."

Hurt masked Blaine's features. "Really, Finn? It's not contagious."

"I…" He needed to explain himself, at least, for Kurt's sake if not for Blaine's. "I don't have a problem with you being gay. Honestly. I just… I don't want Kurt to get too attached to you and get hurt."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to fall in love with your brother. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I want to date every guy I meet."

"You don't understand. Kurt… he said you saved him. Sang to him. I know he was just imagining it, but the look on his face when he said that…" Finn trailed off, pulled back into the memory, and Blaine used that moment to push back the guilt that had crawled its way out of him.

"I just want to talk to him, see if he's okay. I promise I don't have any nefarious agendas."

The boy blinked. "Ok. I believe you."

"Good." Finn sat back down, and they shared a moment of silence that lingered somewhere between cordial and strained. "Why did you turn your brother's offer down? He said any third-year medical student would kill to see a leprosy."

"Lapa… nevermind." Blaine, having taken off his shoes when he'd arrived at the office hours ago, tucked one leg under himself. "I think it would have felt wrong to take him up on it. I'd never seen Kurt before, the night he came in. I didn't know anything about him except his name. Now I know a lot."

"But if you're going to be a doctor, don't you need to get used to operating on people you know?"

"I… I don't think I'd have a problem operating on _people,_" Blaine confessed, drumming his fingers on his knee anxiously. There was always something to be anxious about.

"Then why Kurt?"

"I don't know. Honestly. I just…" A minute passed, and they both realized together that there was no end to that sentence. Maybe there was only one way to find the answer.

Finn stood up. "We need to see Kurt. Let's go."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "He's in surgery now."

"Right, um… whenever that's done." Finn reached into his pocket, producing his cell phone. "Give me your number. I'll call you when he's ready."

Blaine's heart raced as he grabbed the device, sweaty fingers wiped on his pants before plugging his phone number in. Anticipation. "See you then." The boy nodded and made for the door. Before he could disappear, Blaine called out, "Finn?"

"Yeah?"

He smiled. "I'm not going to hurt him."

Finn nodded. "I know. Doctors don't hurt people, they save them."

* * *

**A/N: This chapter means a lot to me. Santana's rant about coming out was something I wish had been said on the show, especially since everyone just seemed to forget what happened. I really hope you guys enjoyed reading, and I hope that the next chapter doesn't take this long to get out (although I hope the length made up for it at least a bit)! **

**Thank you so much for reading, and feel free to let me know what you thought in the reviews! Follow my Instagram nayawarbler to keep up with my process and for edits!**


	10. The World By You

**Warning: mentions of sexual assault, death, and explicit language. Read with caution.**

**I know that this is a difficult time for everyone, and this chapter is a bit angst, so I completely understand if you're not up for it right now. If not, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The World By You**

A gentle pressure against his cheek woke Kurt. Cold cream clung to his skin like dew to a sleeping leaf, and that same pressure returned, rubbing it in, circle after circle. When he tried to move, a bolt of pain rattled his abdomen, tearing a groan from his throat.

"Careful." The hand left his cheek and steadied him, calloused, firm. "You just had surgery, kiddo. Gotta take it easy for a bit."

"Dad?" Burt resumed his ministrations, dipping his fingers into the tub of moisturizer. Kurt's lips fell open into an 'o' as his father pressed the lotion to his forehead. "How long have you…"

"Almost half an hour now. I swear, Kurt, this entire routine of yours is a handful."

"That's… th-the idea," he said, disoriented. "W-What… time is it?" He turned to the window, but the dreary, cloudy sky betrayed nothing. It could have been any time between sunrise and sunset, and the sun could have been hidden anywhere behind the thick mass of clouds.

"Almost 6 pm. You slept through the day again. Woke up around noon when Harry came 'round to check on you, but you fell right back asleep after."

"Oh." He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately – sleeping through the day. Before he'd had trouble even keeping his eyes closed. Then again, the line between where his body spoke for itself and where it was guided by drugs had begun to blur substantially. "W-Where's Carole? F-Finn?"

"Carole went to stock up on some post-surgery foods for you – she knows how much you like Greek yogurt. Finn's… at home, studying. He has a biology test tomorrow. You never know with that one." Burt shook his head in wonder. Then he paused, reaching for his cell off the side table. "But he did ask me to let him know when you woke up, so I'm gonna..."

Watching his father text infuriatingly slowly, Kurt grimaced. "No t-touching my face now. Ph… phones are _nas_ty."

Burt looked up at him, smiling fondly. "You sound like your mom. She never let me come near you when you were a baby until I'd showered and changed after work. Understandably."

The breath caught in Kurt's lungs. It had been ages since his father had brought Elizabeth up in conversation like that – the last time he could remember was before Burt and Carole's wedding, when his father had sat him down alone, as he was sure Carole was doing with Finn, and reminded him that his mother had been and always would be his soulmate.

For some reason, knowing that had validated his existence in his mind. If he was the product of love like that, there was no way anything people had said about him was true. None of the name-calling and slurs and slushies had meant anything.

Now, the thought just made him want to cry. _Imagine what she would say if she saw you right now._

"Kurt?" Putting away his phone, Burt lifted himself onto the bed by his son's side. "What's wrong?"

The flood gates broke. Sobs raked through his body, showering him in pain like bits of glass from a car wreckage. "E-Every-th-th…ing-g," he cried out, barely forming the words around his pursed, trembling lips. Burt pulled him into his chest, holding himself together with the tiny, broken body in his arms.

"Shhh, hey, it's ok," he whispered, smoothing the boy's hair down, over and over, holding him until his body stopped shaking violently and all that was left of the episode was a sniffling, red-faced Kurt tucked into his flannel, damp with tears. Kurt lifted his face, eyes trained on the water stain, and Burt shook his head. "Stop thinking about my shirt."

"S-Sorry."

"Don't be." A moment of heavy silence passed before Burt realized that Kurt wasn't going to talk unless he prompted him. "Kurt…"

"J-Just f-forget ab…bout it," he sniffled. "P-P-Please."

"Can't do that," Burt said. He shifted closer, patting Kurt's arm (and rejoicing when he didn't flinch away). "Is it your mom, Kurt? Or the surgery?"

"T-t-told you…"

"Yeah. _Everything_. But I need to know what that means."

"S-She… you…" His teeth found his lip again, biting firmly before spitting it out. His mouth tasted like sour milk. "You said n-not to…" Tears spilled down his cheeks. "…_th-throw myself ar-ar-round…_"

Something stilled in Burt's chest. Something important that he needed to survive. The cuss word slipped right out from his lips, and he was helpless to stop it. "_Fuck_."

"And m-mom… w-w-would b-be… _di-disgusted…_"

"Kurt, stop. Please." The ache grew stronger and stronger with each word, until Burt believed he was having another heart attack – but no, his heart was just broken beyond repair, and not one of the medical professionals in this building could save him from that. "You are not disgusting. And your mother would be proud of you for being so strong. And Kurt, _dear god,_ you did not throw yourself around."

"I…" The way Kurt's jaw clenched made his throat swell, and Burt eyed the trashcan in the corner, ready to grab it in case he puked. Neither one was sure who moved, but Kurt found himself tucked back into the warmth of his father's embrace. He said, with a resigned absoluteness, "I'm broken, dad."

"You're not broken," Burt said.

"De-Depends… who you ask."

"You're not broken to _me_," Burt amended. "And anyone who thinks you are is wrong."

"Am _I _wrong?"

A small smile graced his father's lips. "This time? Yeah, kiddo, you are wrong."

Kurt swallowed. "I-I've been… wrong a lot, lately."

_The world is wrong, not you_. Burt wanted to tell his son this, to shout it from the top of the highest building in Lima, to burn it into the eyelids of anyone who'd ever shot Kurt a mean look. But there was a fine line between building Kurt up and putting him on a pedestal that Burt struggled with immensely, twice as much since his first wife's passing. "What makes you say that?"

The boy averted his eyes, which swam with shame and doubt. "Everyone says I'm… _seeing th-things._"

"Kurt, you just woke up from a_ coma_. The doctor said you might experience some hallucinations. It's perfectly normal."

"Did you? W-When you…"

The question made Burt pause. Lately, the memory of his own coma had become a kite fluttering on the end of an infinite string. "I don't think so. But that was different."

"How?"

"I…" _wasn't bullied, beaten, bruised, assaulted…_ "had a heart attack. You had a head injury."

"Nice way to… p-put it." He flinched as soon as he said it, violently and viscerally.

Burt blinked back tears. "My point is that you're going to be okay, and everything's going back to normal."

"Ok." Kurt couldn't help it – he still thought about it all, constantly, as though he had died and gone to hell, and some demon somewhere was prying his eyelids open with meaty fingers and forcing him to remember the worst moments of his miserable, meaningless life. He remembered the hands against his skin, the vomit lodged in his throat…

_Courage, Kurt._

But _he_ wasn't real.

Nothing was real.

How could he trust that everything would be okay?

Burt's fingers skimmed his forehead as he stood. "I'm going to see if I can find Dr. Anderson. You know what to do if you need anything." The boy nodded, and his father paused, fingertips pressed soothingly against his temple. The mechanic sighed. "I love you, Kurt. So much."

"You t… too, dad."

His father closed the door behind him, and suddenly that piece of wood was a thousand walls of reinforced steel. Kurt closed his eyes.

Loneliness took over.

* * *

From **Finn Hudson**: _Burt jst texted me dat Kurt wok up_

_MEt me outside Hs r 8pm._

Blaine stared at his phone, trying to decipher the message. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, considering the conversations he'd had with the boy, and the size ratio of his fingers to the keys on his phone, but he'd taken a moment after reading the message to assess his own sanity. Ultimately, he decided, he was just going to have to get used to the eccentric style.

At least, if there would be a need for them to keep in touch. Which Blaine both dearly hoped there would be and dreaded with all his might.

The smile on his face dropped, however, when he caught sight of the paperwork on the coffee counter. The day's events rushed back into his mind, bringing with them the bruising ache in his temples. He rubbed them, frustrated, and tried to keep the angry tears wherever they came from.

Wes placed a coaster on the table, topping it with a steaming cup of coffee. Familiar and warm, the burnt, bitter smell wafted through his nose into his brain. The teacher's arm wrapped around Blaine's shoulder as he took a sip of the heavenly liquid, sighing in relief.

"How are you holding up?" Wes said, tucking a cushion behind his back.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You weren't fine when you failed that damn code blue mock, and you're not fine now that it's the real thing."

"Jeez, Wes, thanks for the uplifting words," he snarked, setting the mug down harshly. The clang resounded through the air, mingling with his words. After a moment, Blaine shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I take everything out on you. It's not fair."

"You're right, it's not fair," he agreed, "but given that you saw a man die today, I think I'll let it slide." Blaine seized up, every muscle in his shoulders tightening at the single word. _Death_.

"I-" His voice was uneven, like the lines on a cardiac monitor. "I just-"

Apologetic, Wes sighed. "Sorry, that was blunt. I've never seen anyone… pass away. I don't know how to help you other than make you coffee and hold your hand."

Blaine's eyes met his, golden and teary and desperate. "What do I do, Wes?"

"Call someone who understands. Cooper?"

"He has a scheduled procedure, a long one. He'll be busy for hours."

"How about…" He hesitated, weighing the options. "Sebastian? Marley?"

Blaine flinched. "They've never – no, you're right. I'll call them."

Two short phone calls and a change of clothes later, Blaine was opening the door to two solemn-faced medical students, the taller of whom grasped a brown bag tightly around the top. "Let's go for a walk, Blaine Warbler," Sebastian declared, tipping the concealed bottle into the sky, and its contents dribbled onto his chin.

"The good stuff is more for him than you," Marley whispered as the trio took to the streets. It was just past 6 o'clock, and the sun was in its last stretch before disappearing completely into the underground. She kicked a rock with her rubber-soled shoes, and it skipped, drowning in the dark. "Hunter brought home another conquest."

"Why do you and Bas put up with that asshole? I barely have to deal with him during rounds and I still despise his face."

"Because rent is expensive, and three med students living off of minimum wage while paying off loans is better than two," Marley replied.

Blaine smiled half-heartedly. "You know I'd move in with you if-"

"If you and Wesley hadn't been roommates since Dalton, I know."

They fell into a companionable silence, watching Sebastian drink himself to euphoria a few feet ahead. As they walked, the chilly air brought life back to their cheeks. Blaine was content for a moment, allowing himself to forget the day's troubles, and shook his head at his friend's antics. "He gets like this every time Hunter brings someone home. Have we ever considered there might be a reason?"

Marley shuddered. "For his sake, I sure hope not. And for my sanity. There's no way I could keep living with them if they ever…"

"If who did what?" Sebastian slurred, already tipsy from his 'nightcap.' He was lying to himself – there was no way that would be his last drink of the night. Might as well help him along.

Blaine grabbed the bottle from his hand and took a long swig, relishing in the poetic juxtaposition of a burning throat and frozen fingertips. "Look at us, drinking in public on a Wednesday night. If only our patients could see us now." He cut himself off, a hysterical laugh breaking through his lips. "You can't see when you're dead, though."

"Blaine-"

"I watched that man's heart stop beating. And it wasn't the first time I'd seen that." He drank more and more, until the bottle came up empty; he frowned at it but continued on. "But Kurt was fine afterwards, you know. Kurt's still fine. I mean sure, he's got some problems, like Finn told me about… what was it?"

A slightly intoxicated Sebastian and Marley shared a look of confusion. "Who are you talking about, Blaine? Who's Kurt? Finn?"

"Kurt's a… can't tell you that? I think…" After that, they walked in silence, not one of them knowing where their destination was. Somehow they ended up in the dark, packed parking lot of Scandals. Blaine blamed muscle memory. He grinned approvingly. "Good choice, feet."

It was just past 7 o'clock, and happy hour was at its swinging peak. As they entered the bar, they were hit by the robust smell of sweat and alcohol mingling like a dirty kiss. The far wall of the establishment was lit up by gambolling blue light, and the dance floor was orbited by round, wooden tables, occupied by men and women with striking appearances and confident hands. The three found themselves carried – whether by their own unconscious feet or by the current of bodies – to the crowded bar counter.

Marley took to ordering their drinks as Blaine and Sebastian engaged themselves with appearing less drunk than they were. She rolled her eyes at them, sipping on a light cocktail. "What was in that bottle, Bas? You two are shit-faced."

Sebastian chortled, the sound not unlike that of a honking goose. "Ah, my friend, 'tis not a matter of _what_, but _how much_…"

"Great, the Shakespeare-drunk phase," Marley sighed, shoving a shot glass towards him. "Let's move that one along quickly, please. I don't have the brain capacity to babysit you _and_ translate your middle-English bullcrap."

"Early Modern," Blaine interrupted, dazed. He whispered, close and conspiratorially, "Don't let Wes hear you."

"For fuck's sake," she groaned, letting her forehead rest on the dirty counter. "This is how I die."

"Wouldn't be able to help you if you did." Blaine tilted the liquid in his glass around and around for a minute before tossing it down his throat in one swift movement. It burned, and he loved it.

Marley tensed, slowly lifting herself up and placing a comforting hand on his arm. "Blaine, I didn't mean-"

"I had to tell his family that he was dead. Have you ever told someone their father is dead? Or their husband, or their brother? Or… that _you_ couldn't save them?" Another glass slid across the bar to him, and he looked up to see the bartender's sympathetic face. He couldn't bring himself to smile in thanks, so he just nodded.

"Blaine…" Marley rubbed his forearm, trying to get him to look at her, but it was as though he didn't feel it. Then her attention was drawn to Sebastian, who appeared to be getting into a fight at the end of the bar. "I… I'm gonna go pull Bas away. Are you gonna be alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, totally." The reply was laced with disinterested bitterness. She frowned but left, dragging Sebastian away by his ears. Blaine rested his face in his hands, brushing the curly mess of his hair out of his eyes, lamenting the loss of his hair gel after graduating high school.

The bartender returned, eyeing the man as he measured. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop," he began, shaking a drink. The movement made his arms flex appealingly. "But that was some pretty heavy stuff you were talking about."

"Everything's heavy lately," Blaine muttered sourly before catching himself. "Sorry, 'ts not your job to be my therapist."

"It sounds to me like you deserve some free therapy," the man quipped. "Not that I'm qualified. Well, I _am _a bartender, which makes me qualified than most. So, which of the noble professions are you? I'm guessing either fireman, cop, or doctor, although you look too young for the latter."

Blaine raised his eyebrows. "Doctor. Or, studying. I'm in med school. Should I be concerned 'bout you carding me?"

The man grinned toothily. "Humour me?" Blaine folded his lips together, sliding his driver's licence over the counter. The bartender's eyes roamed over the card for a moment before he slid it back. "Nice to meet you, Blaine Anderson, 24, male. Second year?"

"Third. Skipped a grade."

"So you were destined to be a genius, then."

"Could say that. Or… that I was friendless and lame."

His eyes brightened as he leaned into his hands. "I find that last part hard to believe."

_Oh._ Blaine may have been intoxicated and naturally oblivious, but he could tell when he was being flirted with. Something in his stomach churned, and he didn't know if it was pleasant or unpleasant. He hiccupped. "I… I'm very drunk."

"You're the most eloquent drunk I've met, despite the oversharing." Either way, he placed a glass of ice water in front of Blaine. "But, as your therapist, I don't think it's wise to drink until you forget whatever's troubling you."

"Fair enough. 'Ts not like death ever goes 'way." Blaine sipped the ice water. It was cool, refreshing, but he wouldn't admit that. "Tastes better, but isn't as much fun."

Time passed slowly as he sobered up, and the bartender went back to work, returning every now and then to refill Blaine's water. In one of those moments, the man smiled at him fondly and opened his mouth to speak when he was cut off by a loud noise. Blaine spun around to the source, where he saw an alluring, black-haired woman in the depths of an argument with another girl whose soft-looking blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders. The first woman turned away from her partner, her pointed features striking against the dim light of the bar. Santana.

She said something to the blonde, whose face screwed up in tears, and the girl turned and ran from the room. Santana dropped herself into a booth, the lines on her face making her look twice her age. Before he knew what he was doing, Blaine was out of his seat and sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

"Go away, I'm a lesbian," she dismissed without looking up from her drink.

"And I'm gay, and way too old for you," Blaine replied, taking the glass away from her. She looked up, resentment clear on her features, when she noticed him, and her lips parted in recognition.

"Hobbit, what're you doing here?"

"Maybe I should be asking you that, Santana, since I know for a fact that you're underage."

"Don't be an ass, little Anderson," she snarled, taking the drink back and finishing it. She set the glass down with a clink. "How do you even know who I am?"

"I…" He debated whether or not he should admit that he'd heard the rather intimate conversation. "I was in the hall when you and Finn were… talking."

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed for a moment as she processed his words. Then her eyes widened, and panic flitted through them. "You can't tell anyone."

Blaine nodded. "It's none of my business who you love. But I have to be honest, if you're going to introduce yourself with 'go away, I'm a lesbian,' I don't know how long you'll be able to keep it a secret."

She shrugged. "No one in this gay bar would know me, and if they did, I'd have blackmail against them, too. The only out person in my entire school happens to be my friend, you know."

"Seems like you have it all figured out, then." Without the drink to occupy her, Santana's gaze wandered around the bar, as though it was her first time there, and ultimately landed on the door – Blaine remembered the girl who she'd been arguing with. "Was that Brittany?"

"How did you… right. Yeah, Brittany. My girlfriend."

"You two seemed cozy."

She glared at him. "I repeat, _ass_." He waited, hoping she'd open up eventually. Their staring match was broken when she looked away, resigned. "Brittany's different. She has this way of seeing the world that's so… happy. So optimistic."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Only when she doesn't understand that the world can be a bad place. I thought we were on the same page about being together, thought she knew the risks for me, but it turns out I was wrong."

"She doesn't want you to stay in the closet?"

"No, she doesn't… _understand_ the closet. She thinks everyone should be able to love who they love, and it's no one else's business. Which, trust me, I would not complain about, but it's just not going to happen."

Blaine knew there was a part of the story that she wasn't telling him. He said nothing – it wasn't his place. For now he would just sit with the girl and reassure her, because he remembered what it was like to be her. "The people you love don't always understand you, but it's their job to try."

Whether that advice applied to Santana, her girlfriend, or both was up to her to decide.

She swallowed loudly before schooling her expression, pasting on her cocky, confident persona. "So, what are you doing drinking alone on a school night?" (Her casual use of the term 'school night' reminded Blaine just how young she was.)

"I'm not alone. I came with friends."

"Really?" She didn't look around, didn't even break eye contact. "Where are they, then?"

"There was an incident. Don't remember much else."

She smirked, glancing behind him. "Anything to do with the hot bartender checking out your ass?"

Blaine rouged. "No, nothing like that. And I find it quite amusing that that's the third time you've referred to my ass."

"Incorrect. The first two were me commenting on your ass-like behaviour. And not in the good way." She paused for a moment, contemplating. "Although, if I was into that sort of thing, I wouldn't turn you down."

He rolled his eyes. "You remind me of a friend of mine."

"Yeah? You remind me of Kurt."

_That_ stopped him in his tracks. It came to his attention that he really didn't know anything about the boy, despite constantly worrying about his health. "How so?"

"He's witty, like you. And cares about people enough to sit with a stranger and talk to her about her love life. And he gives great advice, looks out for me, and, well, can be kind of an ass, especially before coffee. This one time he actually snapped at his math teacher at 8 am because he hadn't had enough time to stop at the Lima Bean for his skinny white girl coffee order. He was _mortified_ after, you should've seen it!" She grinned wide, lost in memories.

"He sounds... amazing." The ache in his chest screamed that he wanted to be there for him, to make him better, whole, safe, unscarred. Because Kurt was a good person, or maybe because he didn't deserve what happened to him, or because he just reminded Blaine of himself.

Santana watched him carefully, and it was unnerving, like being put under a microscope. "You'll be good for him. At least, I hope so."

"How? I don't understand, why are you and Finn so interested in me? Kurt has so many great friends already. I don't know why he would need _me_."

"Honestly, I don't know either." She stood, straightening the bowtie on his collar. "It wasn't me or Finn who chose you, Hobbit. It was Kurt." With that, she grabbed someone's drink, downed it, and adjusted her bra noticeably before shoving past him and making her way to the dance floor. For a moment, Blaine just watched her dance provocatively with anyone who would give her the time of day, which was most. It wasn't particularly pleasant to watch, but it _was_interesting, like seeing her in her natural habitat, yet still with a wall around her made of one-way glass.

Then he turned away, and they didn't see each other again.

He checked his watch: _8:45 pm_.

Making his way back to the bar, he ordered another drink.

* * *

Finn had been tapping his foot incessantly for the better part of an hour before Kurt exclaimed, "W-What are you doing?"

The tapping stopped, and Finn grimaced apologetically. "Sorry, bro. Just… waiting for a text from Rachel."

"About?"

"Uh, she said she'd… lend me her notes. For the biology test."

Kurt raised his eyebrows. "Dad t…t-told me about that."

"Why do you look so surprised, man?" Finn said defensively. "I study."

"F-For video games, maybe."

"That's not fair," he pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm trying to get good grades so I can go with Rachel to New York next year."

Kurt softened. "I'm proud of you, F-Finn."

He grinned toothily and said, "Thanks," and then the incessant tapping of his foot was replaced with tapping of his fingers against the keyboard of his phone.

Kurt sat back in bed. _New York_… Every bone in his body longed for the city, for the bright lights and greasy foods he'd never eat, where the only stars you could see were Broadway legends and performers of all shapes and sizes and talents, where he belonged.

But… his NYADA audition was five months away, and he still couldn't speak without stuttering. The one time he'd tried to sing since waking up had been hell in his throat, and he was, to be honest, terrified to try again. Maybe, if he tried, if he pushed past it all and just tried… It was impossible. Something in his mind stopped him for even being able to open his mouth to entertain the thought.

Tears leaked out of the sides of his eyes, and he hoped that Finn wouldn't notice, wiping them off on his pillow by turning his head to either side.

"Hey," Finn's voice interrupted the silence, and Kurt panicked for a moment, thinking he'd been caught. "It's almost midnight, and I'm starving. Is it cool if I head home for the night?"

"You're always starving," Kurt replied, forcing humour into his tone. "G… Go ahead. Luck for th-the test."

"Thanks, bro. You're the best." Finn lifted Kurt's wrist to bump their fists together in an entirely far-too cheesy way. There was no way Kurt couldn't smile. "See you tomorrow."

"Oh, F-Finn?" The boy stopped at the door. "Can you close th…th-the lights? I'm kind of… tired."

He nodded, and the room was suddenly dark. Finn bid him a final goodbye before heading out, and Kurt was left alone again. He knew it wasn't often that he was alone, but it seemed like the world became sharper and slower whenever he was, like some kind of cosmic torture.

Settling back for a long night, Kurt sighed. The nights were all the same: hours upon hours of lying awake, unless Harry took pity on him on one of his check-ins and gave him something. But they all knew he would start to rely on the medications to put him to sleep, so this happened few times and far between (or so it felt to Kurt, who'd really only been out of his coma for a little over a week).

Closing his eyes was useless, he decided, so he kept them open and just watched. His eyes, by nature, were drawn towards the window that looked out into the hall – there was a soft light glowing on the other side, enough that it lit the hallway and just the front of Kurt's room. He wondered how much longer he would get to stay here before they moved him again.

As usual, time passed slowly in the night. He was silent, watching, waiting – for what, he didn't know. In a thought he immediately banished, the feeling reminded him of hiding in the shower stalls at McKinley after being threatened in the halls, wondering if today would be the day he didn't get to go home for dinner.

Now, he wondered when the day would be that he could return home at all.

Nurses passed through the hall every now and then – not often, as the nights were usually slow. He never saw Dr. Anderson at night, which he assumed was because he was on call in his office or at home, wherever that was… and whoever that was with.

_Last summer, my wife was killed in a break-in…__my daughter was with her. _

He knew Dr. Anderson had only told him about this to see if he would admit to knowing who assaulted him – which he never would, as long as Azimio's threat remained – but he couldn't help but wonder how the man survived, nevertheless continued working with a smile. What kind of person was Dr. Anderson? His family?

Hours passed that way. Or minutes. Kurt wasn't sure. But he had a feeling it was somewhere in those precarious hours between the dead of night and the outset of dawn when a figure – a man – came into view, illuminated gently by the overhead light. Kurt expected him to pass through, maybe on his way to the emergency or operating rooms, but he didn't continue on. In fact, he sat himself down opposite to Kurt's window and dug through his backpack for a moment before producing a textbook and cracking it open.

His face was hidden by shadows, but something about him was familiar – the long, reaching curls tangled in a mess on top of his head, the small but powerful build of his body… Kurt watched him in silence as he turned the pages of his book, fingers trailing along the lines with focused intent.

Kurt began to measure time by the turning of the pages. One, two, three… The man stopped reading suddenly, rubbing at his temples with one hand and reaching in his bag with the other. He pulled out a bottle of pills, took two dry, and carried on with the textbook as though nothing had changed.

But it had.

Because when he'd taken those pills, Kurt had seen his face.

He was real.

He existed.

_Blaine_.

Maybe everything would be okay.

* * *

**A/N: ... Finally. (Is that what everyone else was thinking too?)**

**Thank you so much for reading, and feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments! Follow my Instagram nayawarbler to keep up with my process, polls about the story, and edits! Also, if anyone just wants to DM me and chat then I'm totally game. **


	11. One Conversation

**Chapter Eleven: One Conversation**

Squinting, Blaine turned the page of his textbook, angling it so it caught the overhead light instead of the wayward shadow of his hair. His back was pressed against the wall across from the window into the hospital room, satchel discarded somewhere close-by. "Like I'm actually going to remember any of this in the morning," he muttered, tracing his fingers along with the text as he read. The words began to blur beneath his fingertips, and he cringed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. Head throbbing, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, wondering if he was hung-over or still drunk.

There were less than five days left until his exam, and to be honest, Blaine was so far off the wagon that he had no way to get home.

By the time Blaine had pulled himself together long enough to stop drinking at the bar, he'd had a drunken kiss with the bartender and a missed chance to meet Kurt under his belt. Guilt swelled in his chest as he remembered the slew of disappointed texts from Finn, as well as the final one telling him – in his colourful tongue – that he was done waiting and was going home. That was when Blaine had finally pulled his lips away from the stranger's and called a cab to take him to the hospital.

Now he was here, where he always was at this time of night, looking after Kurt when he could barely look after himself.

The throbbing was so painful that Blaine thought he might be dying – but, thanks to Wes, he had painkillers in his bag. Grappling along the floor, he pulled the satchel towards him and rummaged through its contents, procuring the tiny bottle. He took two, dry, tipping his head back once the bitter pills assaulted his tongue. Swallowing, he sighed and returned to his textbook, when suddenly a crash startled him, and he banged his head against the solid wall. Scrambling to his feet, Blaine peered into the window where the ruckus came from, searching immediately for the sleeping boy's figure.

His gaze landed on Kurt, fast asleep, safe with a fallen book on the ground beside him, and he relaxed, reaching again for the textbook that he'd dropped with a soft thud.

The boy's eyes flew open and locked with his. Blaine's fingers froze in the air.

They were just how he remembered them, his eyes — a clear greyish blue, like fog drifting gently over the ocean, like a tall, sparkling glass of liquid diamonds. Kurt. Eyes that had drifted in and out of consciousness the last time they had locked with his were now wide and startled for reasons Blaine couldn't even begin to fathom.

Just one look into them confirmed that Finn had been telling the truth; Kurt did remember him. And it seemed that he wanted to meet Blaine just as badly as he did.

The boy moved quickly, struggling to pull himself out of bed, but Blaine caught his gaze and shook his head slowly, warning. That gaze turned pleading, desperate, incredulous and yet so aching that it was impossible to turn and walk away as he should have. Kurt begged with his eyes, and Blaine could almost hear it, but he was compromised and hurt and this was never the plan…

His feet carried him to the door, and his hands opened it, and before Blaine could convince himself not to, that it was the worst idea he'd ever had, that he would regret it in the morning when his mind wasn't a puddle in his mouth, he was at the foot of Kurt's bed and they were locked in a moment of remarkable disbelief.

Stillness. It was a strange feeling to know someone and never have met them before.

A moment of silence passed, like dipping your toes into a pool in the odd months between summer and winter when you wonder why there's no fifth season to offset the contrast.

"Hello," Kurt spoke finally. His voice was soft and quiet but with a certain vigour to it that hinted at passion and expertise. Blaine hadn't given much thought to how it would sound, but somehow it fit perfectly.

A puff of breath escaped Blaine's lips, and he whispered back, "Hi."

"I'm Kurt." They both knew that.

"I…" He didn't miss the way the boy's chest tightened in anticipation. "I'm Blaine. I don't know if you remember me…"

Kurt breathed out shakily, and a single tear fell down his cheek. He left it there, hoping the dark would conceal it. "I th-thought I dreamed you."

"I'm sorry I let you think that." Blaine stood awkwardly, eyeing the chair. Kurt shook his head, gesturing for him to sit on the bed. He did, the soft material cradling his legs unlike the harsh cement of the hospital floors.

"It's ok," Kurt replied, playing with his fingers that rested on his chest above the comforter. "You d-didn't know."

"Know what?"

"Th-That I was looking f-for you."

Blaine's heart tightened. He _had_ known that – not entirely, not in as many words, but Finn had told him that Kurt remembered him, and he'd still stayed away. Now, looking back to just a minute ago, the decision felt awfully selfish. "I'm sorry, Kurt."

His face must have spoken for itself because the hurt that flashed across Kurt's face was enough to stab a knife into Blaine's chest. "Oh," the boy said, realization sweeping across his features. "Th-That's ok. You d-don't have to… stay."

"Kurt, no, I-" Of their own accord, his hands reached for Kurt's, which were wringing each other out painfully. He placed his own on top, carefully, hesitantly. "I promise, that's not why I didn't come. It was never because of you."

A hard shell had come down over those beautiful eyes. "You d-don't… know me."

"You're right. But I would like to get to know you if that's alright."

Kurt waited for a moment as though testing the air for poison. "Why?"

"A friend once told me we'd be good for each other."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Your f-friend knows me?"

The curly-haired man grinned toothily. "I think you know her, too. Santana Lopez?"

"T-Tana? How d-do you…"

"It's a long story."

"I…" A gentle blush covered Kurt's cheeks. "I have time."

Blaine gave himself a moment just to watch the wonder in the boy's eyes. "Look, Kurt, I have to be honest with you. Your step-brother approached me the other day."

"Finn?"

He nodded. "He was the one who told me about you."

Kurt's lip began to tremble. "W-W… W-What?" _He told me_…

"I overheard him and Santana talking in the hallway. He asked me about why I was in your room the day you woke up, and then he asked me to-"

"W-Why were you? In my room?" Kurt asked, trying to make sense of the new information.

Blaine stopped, confused. "I thought you remembered? The song?"

"I remember th-the song. I meant why were you th-there… in th-the f-first place?"

"Oh. I, uh- I came to see you, Kurt. To make sure you were okay."

"Why… d-did you never come back? After I woke up?" Kurt looked as though his mind was going a thousand miles an hour. "Why weren't _you_ my d-doctor?"

His lips fell open, and he shook his head. "I'm not a doctor, Kurt. That's why you aren't mypatient. Well, not anymore. I only assisted in one surgery, so I have no connection to you anymore. Not in that way." Internally, Blaine kicked himself for adding the last part – it sounded awfully suggestive. Luckily for him, Kurt didn't seem to notice, preoccupied with other parts of the story.

"No, you… you _are_ a doctor. You saved me! I remember you…"

"I'm a student. Third year of medical school." He stopped, breathing deeply as memories of the horrific yet incredible night flooded his mind. "The night they brought you in, there was… an incident on the road. A man, downtown, mowed down dozens of pedestrians with a truck. Another was an active shooter on foot. There still isn't much information, publicly at least, but I do know – first-hand – that there were casualties. Many. The hospital went from empty one second to standing room only the next."

Shock was written across Kurt's face. No one had told him the story, it seemed. "Th-That's horrible."

Blaine nodded. "It was at the beginning of my emergency medicine rotation. When they called the code, I was visiting my brother, Cooper Anderson, your current doctor."

Kurt bit down on his lip. _Dr. Anderson's family_… this was him. His gut clenched as it dawned on him how close he had been to Blaine this whole time, to knowing that he wasn't crazy or hallucinating or... alone. "Oh."

"That's why I kept checking on you, Kurt. I had to make sure you were okay. You were the first person I ever helped saved, and after all these years, well, that means something to me."

The boy's throat tightened. "And tonight?"

Blaine sighed. "I promise Finn I'd come and meet you tonight. 8 o'clock. But I lost one of the patients during rounds earlier, and…"

Kurt's hand stirred under Blaine's grip, and they maneuvered their hands so that they were side by side, despite not touching. Comfort. "I'm glad you're h-here now."

"Me too." Hazel eyes flickered with warmth and sobriety and little flecks of gold. "There are a lot of things we have to talk about, Kurt."

"Ok, but…" Kurt smiled, shy, hesitant. "Can th-they wait until morning?"

Blaine fought himself over it. What he needed to ask was important. But then again, now that they'd broken the barrier separating them, there was no reason he couldn't come back tomorrow. The thought hit him hard and fast, dizzying in its aptitude. "I suppose they can."

The way Kurt's face brightened told him all he needed to know about that decision.

For the first time since that fated day almost a month ago, neither of them noticed the passage of time with every breath, every tick of the clock, every beep or chime or ding that came with the territory of being locked up in a hospital. They talked about music, Blaine's long-lived glory as the lead soloist for the Dalton Warblers, the months between junior and senior year when he had to take three summer courses once he realized he wanted to apply to pre-med instead of performing arts.

"Why d-did you?" Kurt asked, chest light with laughter from Blaine's anecdote about the girl who sat behind him at the summer college class asking him out every day for a month. Blaine had had to come out to her before she backed off, and reluctantly so. Short bubbles of laughter sprang from Kurt's lips as he listened to the story, but his mind was reeling. _Blaine was gay_ – which wouldn't be a big deal if he wasn't the only person even close to Kurt's age who was as open about it as he was.

"Why did I switch directions with my career?" At Kurt's nod, Blaine winced. He wanted to tell the story because it was important, both in understanding him and for someone like Kurt who looked so lonely, but he was worried that it would bring back memories for both of them that they couldn't handle. Blaine's hazel eyes stared off at the wall. "I… I would tell the story without hesitation if I thought you'd be okay afterwards."

Kurt's heart tightened. He really, really hoped it wasn't what he thought it was. "If you can try to tell it, I'll try to be okay."

Blaine closed his eyes as he deliberated. Yes, it was worth the risk for Kurt to know he wasn't alone. It was always worth the risk. "Okay, let's try."

He told the story of his sophomore year in high school. Despite him being a year younger than the rest of his year, he'd been desperate to attend the Sadie Hawkins dance at his old school for an attempt at some normalcy. Blaine had still been in the closet, but his secretive dalliance with the boy next door, his best friend at the time, had encouraged him to bring a date to the dance – a date he actually had feelings for.

Blaine sighed. "I want to say that it ended as well as I expected, but I can't bring myself to diminish what was one of the most horrible moments of my life to this day. I thought the snide remarks and the laughter was going to be the end of it, and I was _relieved_… but a group of boys stayed late and taught us that we were gross, an eye-sore, not worth the time it took to make fun of us and yet they _still did it_."

Kurt's hands had moved to cover his mouth as his eyes wettened. "Oh, _Blaine._"

Blaine's eyes sought his, full of passion and anger. "But the reason I'm telling you this story isn't to make you pity me because of some tragic backstory, Kurt, because we all have one. The reason is so you know that they were _wrong_ about every single thing they said that day. I knew it, even then. But my date got the brunt of it – the insults, the kicks and punches, the pain. And after they left us alone, beaten, I felt so helpless waiting for the paramedics to arrive. So, I decided I was going to do something about it."

"And…" Kurt bit his lip anxiously. "Your d-date? Was he…"

"He was fine, for the most part. But he resented me for taking him to that dance, and it was the end of our relationship. Even our friendship was never the same. You know, of the entire incident, the part that stuck with me the most was feeling of having no power, no defence, no way to save him from the pain." Blaine shrugged. "Now, obviously my first thought wasn't medical school. I joined a boxing class first, actually, as soon as I was discharged. My father was quite happy about that."

The bitterness in Blaine's voice at the last sentence juxtaposed his words in a way that struck Kurt as odd, but he held back the questions that were burning inside him in lieu of listening to Blaine's story. "Boxing? H-How did th-that lead you here?"

He grinned. "That's where Coop comes in. The semester after I transferred to Dalton, junior year, my brother came home for Christmas for the first time in years."

"Came home? He d-didn't live with you?"

"No, Cooper hated Ohio. He's ten years older than me, so he moved out when I was eight – he went to L.A. to get a degree from Stanford, believe it or not. The last time I'd seen him was at his wedding."

"Dr. Anderson told me about her," Kurt interjected. "His wife."

Blaine's smile grew wistful. "Viv was amazing. I met her at the wedding, which was a little weird, but she won me over pretty fast, I must say. After the two of them had Lily, their daughter, they brought her to Ohio for her first Christmas – I can't even imagine _that_ flight. Anyway, over a very awkward dinner which mainly consisted of my dad pretending I was straight and my brother getting angry over my parents not telling him about my stint at the hospital, Cooper asked me what I wanted to do with my life after graduating. Once, I would have known the answer right away – move to New York and make a living with my guitar and my voice."

"You h-have a beautiful voice," Kurt confessed. "Th-That's what I remember."

"Thank you," Blaine replied, resembling a puppy for a moment. Kurt could almost imagine ears on top of his head, wiggling with affection. He stifled a laugh. "You do too, Kurt. Even your speaking voice is like music."

"Most people d-dislike it," Kurt admitted. "Say it's… confusing."

"Well, I think it's exquisite."

"I'm glad."

There was more to say about it – they both knew. But neither were willing to broach the subject, and that was okay, for now. "I still moved to New York," Blaine said. "It's not a perfect city, but it was my home for four years, and I loved every minute of it."

"Why d-did you go if you… didn't want to perform anymore?"

"I always knew I wanted to live there, no matter what I was doing. Cooper inspired that Christmas – seeing how happy he was, hearing how he helped people, it was all so alluring. Of course, once I started studying, I realized how hard it would be, but I had always loved science. So, after filling the prerequisites by taking summer courses, I applied to pre-med at a bunch of schools in New York, and I got in."

Kurt's eyes were wide by then. He'd known that Blaine was older than him, but the years took on a whole new meaning when he realized how much more he'd lived. "Why… d-did you come back t-to Ohio?" _I wouldn't_.

"My father passed away three years after I moved away. I wasn't going to come back, but my mother was grieving and alone and I couldn't bear to leave her alone. She's always been the supportive one. Cooper had already bought a house in L.A. with his wife and daughter and was in the last year of his residency in emergency medicine. I couldn't make him leave, either."

"But he's here now?"

Blaine rubbed his temples. "He came back after Viv died, so mom could look after Lily for a while. He was a mess for months. We pretend he came back for dad, but it had been three years by the time he got here."

A moment passed before Kurt placed a comforting hand on Blaine's shoulder. He knew the same pain. He wanted it to go away. "My… mom d-died when I was… eight."

Blaine lifted his hand and placed on top of Kurt's. "She must have been amazing."

"She _was_ amazing," Kurt agreed. "She was kind, strong, and beautiful. The world was a better place with her in it."

"Sounds like someone I know," Blaine pressed.

Kurt sighed. "You still d-don't know me, Blaine."

"No," he replied. "But I'm learning with every minute."

There was no disputing that – every moment spent together was one where they learned more, whether they were telling each other things or learning from how the other reacted. So Kurt told him, struggling with his words less and less as the minutes passed, about his dreams of moving to New York and performing for thousands of people and finally feeling the warmth of acceptance and respect. He needed it like he needed to breathe, and it had been gone from his life for as long as he could remember. He told him about McKinley and its stained walls and putrid smells of unwashed teenagers, about the Glee club and their well-meaning yet intense dynamic, about his first competition solo and how it was ripped away from him the second he got it.

"What would you sing if you got to do the solo tomorrow?" Blaine asked, watching the shimmer in Kurt's eye as he spoke about music. It was familiar – he'd seen it in many eyes in his long life, but somehow is shone brighter against the electric blue of Kurt's.

"Maybe D-Defying Gravity, just to prove that I could," he proposed.

Blaine frowned. "From what you've told me, I think everyone knows you can. Forget proving it to them. What do you _want_ to sing?"

"I…" Kurt's throat tightened as he imagined himself on stage, the melody that would sprout from a single piano, the notes that would burst from his lips. "Being Alive, f-from Company," he admitted.

"Oh. That's… _amazing_, Kurt." The song choice was so mature, so raw and vulnerable yet strong and dignified that an onslaught of new information bombarded him about the boy in front of him. "I would have loved to hear it."

"Maybe someday." Kurt's sentence was punctuated by a loud and wide yawn. He tried to swallow it halfway through, and it turned into a sort-of mewl that made his cheeks pink with embarrassment. "S-Sorry."

"Don't be," Blaine excused, hiding a grin under his palm. "You should get some rest. I've kept you up long enough for one night."

"But… you'll be back, right?" Kurt winced internally at the vulnerability in his voice. He was strong, independent, had been his whole life, but a part of him really hoped Blaine would return the next night.

"If I have anything to say about it, I will."

They shared a tiny grin, a promise, before parting ways. Blaine was shutting the door behind him when Kurt's voice stopped him in the doorway. "Blaine?"

"Yes?"

He smirked, knowing. "Is your headache better?"

Blaine's lips fell open in wonder. "Infinitely."

"Good."

"Night, Kurt."

"Night, Blaine."

Maybe it should have been difficult to fall asleep that night after the eventful hours that preceded, but the two of them drifted off effortlessly, half an hour apart, Blaine in his own bed for the first time in weeks.

* * *

"He didn't fucking show up," Finn hissed into his cell phone, pacing imaginary tracks into the floor tiles. "No, Santana, I know. I thought… yeah… Are you serious? At the bar? What were you… seriously? Fuck. Can you come over now? No, I know it's Friday. I don't care if you have cheerios for breakfast – oh, _practice_. What? I am _not_ an idiot…"

"_Well_," Kurt interrupted, startling Finn. The taller boy clenched his chest through his plain white tee, and Kurt raised his eyebrows. "I'm just saying."

Finn flipped him off. "He's awake, Tana. No, you won't piss of Coach Sylvester. Just get here."

"Breathing pisses her off," Kurt retorted as Finn hung up the phone. His brother handed him a glass of water, propping a pillow behind him.

"Fair enough." Finn shuddered. "She's scary."

Kurt sipped his water, wincing at the foul taste of his mouth. He wiped his lips. "Why d-does Santana need t-to come over?"

A look of apprehension crossed his brother's face. "Look, Kurt, we need to talk about something." Dragging the plastic chair over to the bedside, Finn sat himself down and took one of the boy's hands. "Remember when I told you that you were seeing – or, um, hearing things? After you said someone talked to you while you were in that coma?"

"You mean Blaine," Kurt replied matter-of-factly. "I remember."

"Well, I- you see, I didn't exactly…"

"F-Finn. Just spit it out."

"Okay, okay." He sighed. "He's real. I saw him leaving your room the night you woke up. I didn't say anything because I figured he was just a nurse or something who forgot his uniform but when you said what he looked like I figured out who he was but-"

"I know."

It took Finn a moment to reply – and what he came up with wasn't entirely coherent. "What?"

"We met last night. He came to see me."

Incredulous, Finn shot out of his seat. "He was supposed to come at eight! I waited for almost _four hours_!"

"It's a long story. He had… a good reason."

He scoffed. "Yeah, if a good reason is getting drunk off his ass. Santana saw him at Scandals last night when he was supposed to be here."

"He lost a patient d-during rounds," Kurt defended, crossing his arms over his chest. "Th-That must have been _hard_, Finn."

"Oh." He sat back down, pensive. "Sorry."

Kurt shrugged. "He should've texted."

"I can give him a pass this time." Finn groaned, running both hands through his messy hair. "So you guys met, huh? How anti-climactic."

Kurt smacked his arm. "Not f-for me. He's the same person I remember."

"The one you met like once," Finn muttered.

"Twice. F-First when he was saving my life. Second when he sang t-to me."

"Dude, that didn't actually happen. People don't just sing to strangers to wake them up from comas."

_Oh, but he did_. Kurt shook his head, smiling to himself. "You're right. I must've imagined it."

A few minutes of silence passed before Finn stood again and shrugged his letterman jacket back on. "It's not that far from her house to here… looks like Santana isn't coming. I should get to school."

Santana chose that moment to burst in through the doors with all the grace of a toppling house of cards. Her wild black hair was a mess on her shoulders, knotted as though she'd brushed it with her fingers, and her cheerleading uniform was wrinkled infuriatingly. "I'm here, blubber boy. What do you want?" she hissed with her trademark snark. Despite it, Kurt couldn't miss the deep red circles around her eyes or the pain that appeared sewn into her skin.

"Santana?" he said, voice light with caution, holding out a hand invitingly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Why would anything be wrong?" Her words were calm, but her face betrayed her – dark, heavy, full of emotion. One second past the moment when their gazes met, she broke. Dark, heavy, full of emotion. Sobs possessed her, and she shook violently, as though she could expel the vulnerability from her body.

"Oh, Tana," Kurt soothed as she hid her face in his neck. Her wet eyelashes tickled his skin, and his heart filled with unbridled affection. As far as he knew, no one had ever seen Santana cry, except maybe her girlfriend. "Whatever it is, we can get past it. D-Did you and Britt have a f-fight?"

"You could say that," she muttered spiritlessly. "She… We broke up."

"Is it because she didn't want to keep you guys a secret?" Finn asked awkwardly, standing aside and not knowing what to do with his gangly limbs.

Soothing, Kurt rubbed the girl's back and whispered encouragements in an attempt to get her to talk.

"No," she confessed. "It's because she _didn't_."

Kurt fell silent. He knew what that meant, and he really hoped he was wrong. "T-Tana, she d-didn't-"

"She fucking outed me, Kurt." Tears fell from her eyes again. "My parents kicked me out last night. I slept in my car in the parking lot of Scandals." Her voice broke. "I don't know what I'm going _to do_."

"Oh my god," he breathed. The air was afire the way it is when something life-changing happens. His heart hammered in his chest. "A-Alright, it's going to b-be a-alright."

A hand landed on his shoulder; he vaguely registered another on Santana's. Finn answered calmly, "You're staying at the Hudson/Hummels' tonight, if not indefinitely. Now, let's go. We're ditching school today."

"Ok," she mumbled weakly. All her energy was gone, and with it her stubbornness and quips. "Where are we going?"

"To our place so you can take a nap. And after that, probably out for some ice cream." Finn helped her out of Kurt's embrace, steadying her against his large form. He glanced at Kurt. "Will you be okay on your own?"

Kurt nodded. He wouldn't be much help in the state he was in, anyway. As the door shut behind them, he wiped the tears off his neck with the back of his hand. No one ever had to know whose tears they were.

* * *

To **Kurt Hummel**: _Finn gave me your number. He said you might need to talk. Oh, this is Blaine._

Blaine checked his phone again at lunch, cursing the sign that read 'delivered.' He wasn't surprised Kurt hadn't seen his text, just disappointed. Worry lingered, messing with his stomach… or maybe that was just hunger. No, he was pretty sure it was both.

"Put your phone away, Anderson. We have, like, 96 hours to cram a month's worth of material." Marley's legs came into view as she stepped into the bench, plopping herself down across from him. She cracked open her packed lunch, taking a loud bite out of an apple.

"That's not what you were preaching last night at the bar," he muttered bitterly, taking a sip of coffee in an attempt to ease his pounding headache. Come to think of it, Blaine couldn't remember the last time he _hadn't _had a headache. "How are you not dying right now?"

She stared at him incredulously. "I barely had anything to drink. Who do you think dropped you off here last night? I seriously hope you crashed on you brother's office couch last night because I do not want to be responsible for you crashing something else."

"You're fine. I studied here for a bit and then took the bus home. Slept safe and sound in my own bed." He may have left out the part where he chatted with his ex-patient for hours when he was caught watching over his room, but that information was need-to-know.

"At least you didn't go home with that bartender from last night. The last time you did something like that, you were shame-binging for weeks."

He rolled his eyes. "It was college, and I was rebounding. And cut the judgmental crap, Marley. There's nothing wrong with casual sex."

"You're right, but it's not your thing. You're a romantic," she defended. "As your friend, I only want you to be happy. You know that, right?"

Blaine softened his glare, placing a hand over hers. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry."

She looked down, biting her lip. Hesitant. "Listen," she began gently. "You said something last night that… made me wonder."

"What?" He racked his brain trying to remember what he could've said, but most of the night was a haze, in and out of clarity, muddled by drinks and lips and adrenaline.

"You mentioned someone. _Kurt_."

"Oh."

She championed on, wary of his sudden reluctance. "You said you watched his heart stop beating, and that he was fine after. What were you talking about, Blaine?"

"I… I shouldn't have said anything. I can'ttalk about it with you. I'm sorry."

Her lips parted. "Was it the night of the accident? I know it was hard for you. You changed after."

He tensed, fiddling with his food. "Do you remember the story I told you about the Sadie Hawkins dance?"

Sebastian took that moment to sit down beside Blaine, setting his tray of food down. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses, which he pushed onto his head, groaning. "I am _never_ drinking again," he swore, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth and chewing loudly.

The two stared at him, appalled. Marley shook her head and grasped Blaine's arm. "Do you want to talk somewhere else?"

Blaine cleared his throat. "It's okay. Sebastian knows the story."

"I do?" Sebastian asked, mouth half-full of turkey and lettuce. "What story?"

"Sophomore year, Sadie Hawkins. Before I transferred to Dalton, where we met."

"Oh." He nodded somberly. "I do."

"Well, the boy I took to the dance – my first boyfriend – he's back in town."

Sebastian frowned. "Elliott's back?"

Blaine sighed. "He's working a case from the code orange. _My _case. I haven't seen him since college."

Marley placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Blaine. Is that why you've been different the last few weeks?"

"No, I-" Blaine paused. "No. I only just found out a few days ago."

"So what has it been?"

His phone vibrated against the table, and he picked it up.

From **Kurt Hummel**: _Something bad happened. Come see me?_

"Blaine?" Marley pressed.

He looked up distractedly. "Oh, it was nothing, really. Just the shock of the situation and everything. I'm fine now, see?"

To **Kurt Hummel**: _Of course. When?_

"He _has_ been better recently," Sebastian commented to Marley as Blaine fiddled with his phone.

She sighed but nodded reluctantly. "I suppose."

From **Kurt Hummel**: _Tonight. I'll text you when my parents leave_.

Blaine couldn't help but frown at that. Why didn't Kurt want him to meet his parents?

From **Kurt Hummel**: _And before you over-think that, it's just because they would ask too many questions._

He smiled to himself, shaking his head. Maybe one conversation _was_ enough to get to know someone. His fingers typed out the response.

To **Kurt Hummel**: _It's scary how you knew that. I'll wait in Coop's office. Text me :)_

From **Kurt Hummel**: _A smiley face? Really? Are you five and/or super old?_

To **Kurt Hummel**: _And/or? You realize that makes no sense, right?_

From **Kurt Hummel**: _Neither do hiccups, and yet no one questions them._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _That has a perfectly scientific explanation. Hiccups are involuntary contractions of the diaphragm. Your five-year-old and simultaneously elderly theory defies all laws of human biology._

From **Kurt Hummel**: _Boy, you must be fun at parties._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _I'm a medical student. I don't go to parties._

From **Kurt Hummel**: _That's great, neither do I. Except that one party, but I threw up on my guidance counsellor's shoes after that one. Never. Again._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _I'm sensing a story._

From **Kurt Hummel**: _Yep. I'll tell it to you… never._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _You're no fun._

From **Kurt Hummel**: _Are you kidding? I'm the life of the… not-party._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _XD_

From **Kurt Hummel**: _That's it. You're no longer allowed to text._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _XP_

From **Kurt Hummel**: _You are the worst._

_Thank you._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _For what?_

From **Kurt Hummel**: _For making me smile when everything is crap._

To **Kurt Hummel**:_ Oh, Kurt… you're welcome._

From **Kurt Hummel**: _See you tonight, Blaine._

To **Kurt Hummel**: _Tonight :)_

When he looked up, his friends were watching him with twin curious and concerned expressions. Before they could say anything, he waved them off. "It's nothing. Just Wes texting about dinner."

Marley raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you smiling like that?"

He blinked. "Lasagna?"

"Sure," she replied, rolling her eyes. Grabbing her bag, she gestured for the others to follow. "Come on, let's try not to fail now. We're in the final leg."

As they passed through the halls of the hospital, Blaine caught a glimpse into one familiar room, camouflaged by his fellow students. Kurt was lying on the bed as usual, flanked by parents on either side. They were talking about something serious, it seemed by the lines etched into their foreheads, aging them each by years and years.

Blaine caught Kurt's eye. The faintest hint of a smile touched the boy's lips before it was quickly masked. That smile played on Blaine's mind for the rest of the day.

* * *

Kurt was enveloped in a hug the minute the door opened and Blaine stepped through. He relaxed against his chest, worries abandoning his mind for a sweet moment. "Thank you," Kurt whispered, revelling in the soft fabric of Blaine's shirt against his grated cheek.

"I got the sense from your messages that you needed one of these," Blaine replied delicately.

"I d-did." Kurt held out for a moment before releasing him, settling back into his bed. "My parents _d-do _hug me, you know," he teased.

Sitting on the mattress, Blaine blushed, wringing his fingers. "Yeah, well, it's different when it's a friend."

"I suppose it is."

He cleared his throat. "What happened earlier? You seemed pretty distraught."

"It's Santana. You two… are f-friends?"

"In a way. I ran into her last night at Scandals. She'd been in a fight with her girlfriend."

Kurt hesitated. "It was worse th-than that. Brittany outed her t-to her parents."

Blaine reeled back. "What? She was upset last night, but I never would have imagined…"

"She was probably d-drunk. Santana bottles th-things up."

"Why would her girlfriend do that to her?"

"It's… complicated," Kurt explained. "Britt is d-different."

"That's what Santana said," Blaine mused.

"I'm sure she d-didn't mean to hurt her. What th-they have is special."

"How did her parents react?"

Kurt folded his lips together, holding tears at bay. "They kicked her out. She's at my house right now. My room is empty, anyway."

"I… I'm so sorry." Blaine rested his hands in his lap, staring intently at them. His eyes prickled, but he forced it away. This was not his turn to cry. "Is that what you were talking to your parents about earlier?"

He nodded. "Th-They're okay with her staying with us."

"Good. That's the first step – getting her somewhere safe." Kurt hummed in agreement, and Blaine watched the shadows dance across his face, lit by the overhead lights in the hallway. The same question he'd had since that morning burned in his chest. "Why did you want to talk to me? I mean, we barely know each other. I'm sure you have closer friends."

"I f-figured you would understand," Kurt admitted. "You're th…the only other gay person I know. Other than Rachel's d-dads, and they don't count, because they're old."

"I'm old," Blaine pointed out. Kurt rolled his eyes, and Blaine smiled solemnly. "Who's Rachel?"

He brightened. "One of my best f-friends. She's a d-diva, but she has a good heart. And a beautiful voice." His smile was laced with admiration and fondness as he grabbed his cell phone and opened it up. "Santana d-does, too."

"Unsurprising, considering you're all in Glee club."

"Shush." Kurt pulled up a video on his phone, turning it sideways and offering it to Blaine. "It's f-from rehearsals for West Side Story." In the video, Santana's smooth skin was covered by a bright red dress, a matching flower adorning her hair, and Rachel was clad in a pure white dress. They watched the recording in silence as the two girls' voices lifted and fell, filled the empty air of the hospital room and turned it into gold.

"Wow," Blaine muttered as the video ended in a wide-shot of them, side-by-side, facing the audience. "I'm going to have to go see the live show."

Kurt grinned. "Maybe we can go t-together. Opening night is in th-the new year…"

"You'll be out of here by then, I'm sure of it," Blaine encouraged. "I would love to go see the show together. West Side Story is one of my favourites. I played Tony in Dalton's production my senior year."

"I'm not surprised. You remind me of him."

Blaine's nose crinkled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"How could it not be?" Kurt exclaimed. He sighed. "I would have liked t-to audition in different... circumstances."

"You would have been amazing," Blaine replied earnestly. "I definitely would have come to _that_ show. Maybe every night."

He shrugged. "You wouldn't know me, then."

"So?"

"It would be weird if you came t-to a high school production of West Side Story."

"Theatre is never weird." He paused, shaking his head. "Never mind, theatre can definitely be weird. But not in this case."

Kurt squinted at him. "You just th-thought of Rocky Horror, didn't you?"

"Of course I did." The squinting evolved into glaring, and Blaine held his hands up in surrender. "Okay, fine! It's not weird, just… eccentric."

"That's a synonym."

"It is not!"

"Look it up, right now." Kurt crossed his arms over his chest, firm, despite the disbelieving look Blaine was firing at him. "Go ahead."

"You're impossible," Blaine muttered, pulling out his cell phone. A few moments later, he slowly lowered the phone, moving to put it back in his pocket. "Nope, not true…"

"Show me the phone, Anderson." Fluttering his eyelashes innocently, Blaine held up his empty hands. Kurt glared harder, eyes falling to the bed where the item in question lay. He snatched it up, scanning the screen. "I t-told you! How dare you insult-" He cut himself off, startled by the fond look on Blaine's face. Kurt pinked at the cheeks, forgetting what he was going to say.

"Are you feeling better, now?" Blaine asked genuinely, concern etched into his features. Kurt wondered, off-hand, if he'd ever seen Blaine without that concern. If anyone had. It seemed like a big part of who he was, his concern for others. Maybe that was why they were together at that moment.

"Yeah, I am," he replied, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "Thank you. For everything."

"You should get to sleep, Kurt. It's been a long day." Blaine patted his hand before standing up and grabbing the satchel he'd discarded on the bedside chair.

"O-Ok," he agreed, waving softly. "I'll see you… when I see you."

"Tomorrow," Blaine replied. "My brother told me something earlier that we should really talk about. But don't worry, it's nothing bad. I promise."

Kurt nodded. "Tomorrow, th-then."

"Sweet dreams."

He didn't have sweet dreams, but the night was absent of nightmares. In Kurt's book, that was a success. He thanked Blaine gently as he fell asleep, the words carried off into the wind as no one was there to take them home.

* * *

**A/N: Long chapter for us today! Hope it makes up for taking so long.**

**Thank you so much for reading, and feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments! Follow my Instagram nayawarbler to keep up with my process, polls about the story, and edits!**


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